


Idiot Savant

by Nomiliy



Series: The Saga of Steve and Darren [1]
Category: Cirque du Freak | The Saga of Darren Shan - Darren Shan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drunk Sex, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Original Character(s), Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Steve swears alot, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomiliy/pseuds/Nomiliy
Summary: id·i·ot sa·vantnoun1. A person who is considered to be mentally handicapped but displays brilliance in a specific area, especially one involving memory.2. A person displaying great intelligence or aptitude for mental endeavors but completely lacks common sense, particularly social skills.3. Steve Fucking Leonard.





	1. Fuckin' Eric

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I've posted in a while. Like, _a while._  
>  I've had this idea for literal years, and I just really needed to get it out. Basically, this is set after the events at the end of Sons of Destiny where Darren re-sets his own timeline by scaring his younger self away from the circus. This is my interpretation of the new timeline, and of what would happen if Darren stayed in Steve's life. 
> 
> This'll be a slow burn fic, but please expect sexual content in the later chapters. Don't worry, I'll tag all sensitive material _before_ each chapter. 
> 
> Tell me what you think! Tell me if you love it, if you hate it, if you have any suggestions, let me hear all of it! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy~!

# Fuckin' Eric

Steve Leonard was in control. By the age of 17, he’d outgrown his tantrums and violent tendencies. Does that sound a little late? You’re damn right it is. But better late than never, and better late than prison as his corrections officer so elegantly spelled out.

“Ya got one more fight.” Officer Crawley said with a fat, sweaty hand fisting a mug of tea at about 11:00 pm in the West Essex police station. Steve didn’t even remember how he ended up in Essex from Central London, but there he fucking was.  

“Yeah? What ‘appens after ‘at, ‘en?” Steve asked through a busted lip and a smirk. Without the shiner and busted face, Steve Leonard was a rather handsome young man. He had a strong, squared off jaw with dark stubble ghosting his chin and jawline. His nose, bless his Jewish roots for the nose, sat atop his angular face in a prominent slope. And, like the rest of his sharp face, his eyes were a piercing blue that just sang cockiness.

“After that, it’s the penitentiary.”

Steve’s hot-shit demeanor died there. Somehow he’d managed to elude corrections facilities and Youth Courts up until now, and much of that was thanks to Officer Crawley. But that time was coming to a close. The thought of actual prison physically shook the young man.

“Ya understand what I’m saying, son? I can’t keep coverin’ your ass. God bless your mum an’all, but I’m at my wit’s end here.”

Steve nodded. There wasn’t much he could really say. He knew Officer Crawley was right. With his banged up face and platinum blond hair caked in blood, dirt, and beer, he knew he didn’t have the energy to keep going the way he did. Steve, almost like he was born for the feat, raised Hell everywhere he went. He fought in pubs and bars he wasn’t even supposed to be in. He purchased beer and vodka with fake IDs, and when that failed he straight up shoplifted. Damn, Steve even aggravated the general public on _trains_ just to start a brawl. He assumed that’s how he got here in Essex. Probably. The memories went in and out with the throbbing of his right eye, a real shiner, but he pieced the basics together: He said some unsavory comments about some bloke’s mum, got clocked on the train, dragged said bloke out of the train and almost stomped his head on the platform, got arrested, pawned off to Crawly; The usual. But fuck was he tired from it all. Steve was exhausted, beaten to hell, and literally a fight away from prison. Not the best place to be at 16.

So, Steve took Officer Crawley’s advice for once. He stopped cold turkey and all. Was he still angry? Oh, fuck yeah. White hot rage swarmed his being about 70% of the time, but he learned to live with and around the anger. Rather than punching other people and getting into dragout, knockout fights in the schoolyard that either ended in severe bodily damage or his arrest, Steve punched a sandbag. And a speedbag. And a dummy. And, when he just really needed _it_ , a worthy volunteer from the Left Hook Boxing Gym. But no matter how he got out all his excess aggression, he got it out in a safe, and above all _legal_ , fashion.

Even with the residual anger seeping through Steve’s boxing gloves in his downtime, his school life and grades were, as usual, top rate. Steve was on track to ace his A levels and was almost guaranteed admittance into top universities like Cambridge and Oxford. While his anger issues never got in the way of his grades, the change in attitude definitely made the whole academic experience not _terrible._ Classmates approached him more often, even asked him for help in history and math like he wasn’t a delinquent who’d shank them upon eye contact. Teachers scolded him less, he almost never slept in class anymore, and he even _participated._ Like, raised his hand and answered questions and shit. And, much to the coach’s delight, he didn’t start quarrels at rugby practice anymore. Well, not as often. If Tommy Jones scrumed him one more time he’ll knock that fucker’s teeth out.

Hell, Steve even had his best friend back. Darren “Hot Shot” Shan, the only kid who could deal with Steve’s temper, name every issue of Spawn (including the Japanese manga adaptation _Shadows of Spawn)_ , free-kick a football into a corner shot, and pick up any spider with his bare hands, was once again at the blond’s side. Not without a lot of apologizing on Steve’s part, of course. When the brunet came out to Steve 6 months ago, the news was not received well. In fact, Steve took it all _abhorrently._ There was only one thing Steve regretted more in his whole life than those five minutes. But calling your best friend a ‘dick-hungry faggot’ and demanding he get the fuck away from you was definitely one of the worst memories Steve had. He remembered regretting the words immediately. Tear-stained cheeks and raging green eyes were the last things Steve saw that night before Darren socked him in the jaw. Steve was out cold till his mum woke him up the following morning. They avoided each other for the next three months, literally ducking out of the other’s way by hiding in bathrooms or empty classrooms just to nix eye-contact. But Steve just couldn’t keep it up. His life was miserable without Darren. Those three months were filled with a lot of drinking, a lot of girls, and a lot of fights. When he wasn’t getting faded at a house party or hooking up with a one night-stand, he was trying to. And, apparently, it was in one of these cesspools of teenage fuckery that shitfaced-Steve _actually_ made a smart decision. He doesn’t remember any of it, but he woke up in the Shan household, on their couch, with his shirt tossed on the TV, puke dried onto the side of his face, and Annie Shan ogling him.

 

_“G’morning Steve.” She said, resting her arms and face on the back of the couch. Her soft red curls framed her face in such a sweet, innocent fashion. But those piercing green eyes betrayed her looks. Her intentions were as apparent as Steve’s hangover as she eye-fucked the older man. “Sleep well?”_

_Steve tried lifting his head off the couch arm, but that was a bad fucking idea. Everything started swimming and throbbing and the lights fucking pulsed with the blood surging through his temples. “ Oy gevalt...m’fuckin head…” He registered Annie’s presence then. “Why’er ya in m’house…?”_

_“Look again, you drunkard.” A surprisingly deep voice came from Annie’s general direction, and Steve thought very long and hard about female puberty. “Annie quit starin’ at him and get.”_

_Annie glared at her older brother before complying with his demands, walking off with a quick glance back at Steve’s bare chest. Steve might’ve felt compelled to cover himself if he was sober enough to care and if Darren wasn’t staring at him. Those two things together just short-circuited his brain into a state of dumbfounded silence._

_“You somehow_   _had the foresight to call me. I was outside when you made your way to our house and, Good Lord, you were thrashed, mate.” Darren said, grabbing Steve’s shirt off the TV and tossing it at the blond._

_Steve didn’t try to catch it. The realization of where he was, who he was with, fought with his sobering mind and culminated in a pitiful question: “When’d I call?”_

_“Around 3 in the morning_. _” Darren said._

_Steve nodded, accepting that as fact in an attempt to piece together his night. “Why’d I call?”_

_Darren gave Steve a look that he couldn’t quite decipher. Instantly, fear crept up the back of his neck and took hold of his vocal cords, trying to yank the words back from the air._

_“To_ apologize. _” Darren said softly. He was smiling now. “I mean, I couldn't understand what you were saying, you were so drunk, but then you came over. And you were crying, and vomiting, and crying some more-”_

_“Ah, fercockt…” Steve cursed, getting bits of memories back from the night before. He cried like a fucking bitch._

_“That too, you said a lot of things in Yiddish, but all I could make out was ‘fuck,’ ‘sorry,’ and ‘fucking sorry’.”_

_“Good, I probably said sumfin real fuckin’ embarrassin’.” Steve rubbed his hands over his forehead and eyes, feeling the headache roar into a state of soberness. He wanted to leave, get a drink and forget the memories that edged on his mind. He got bits of Darren’s face from the night before. He looked concerned one second. The next, his memory flashed into a hellscape. **Darren looked fucking broken. Green eyes on the verge of tears, dark brown hair tousled by the wind. The dark of the night hid his face, but the lamp lights glowed just enough for Steve to make out an expression of true pain.**_

_God, Steve **needed** a damn beer_

_“It was kinda sweet, though. I mean, it'd be_ _nicer if you weren’t drunk, but I get it.” Darren said before settling on the couch next to Steve. He was taken back by the action, clutching his shirt tightly. “I’m just happy you don’t hate me anymore.” Darren chuckled at his own words, but maybe more out of nervousness than actual joy._

_“I never hated you, Dare,” Steve said, not an ounce of slurring in his speech. “I couldn’t hate you.”_

_Sheer surprise gripped Darren’s features, twisting his face into that unreadable visage that frightened Steve to no end. Steve wanted to say more, to properly apologize for hurting Darren so horribly. But just as he mustered up the courage, a familiar voice stopped him as it rang through the air. It was a rich soprano, one with an endearing Irish twang that echoed subtly in her son’s own voice._

_“Oh, good mornin’ Steve!” Mrs. Shan called from the stairway, waving at the boys down in the living room. Her dark hair was a complete mess, and that oversized robe consumed her, yet she looked absolutely ecstatic. “ I didn’t know you were staying over, but it’s so good to see you, lovely! Are you staying for breakfast? I think we still have some of those kosher sausages in the fridge…”_

_Steve looked to Darren for approval, but he was already helping Steve off the couch to lead him into the breakfast nook for tea and those sausages he didn’t have the heart to tell Mrs. Shan were horrible._

 

Steve was in control. Really, he was. It took the teens years to finally get there, but he had a grip on life finally. Everything was pretty great for him. Good grades, improving mental health, _great fucking_ friends, everything was wonder-

“Hey babe~” A deep voice called over the school practice fields. It was faint, and not directed at any rugby players, _certainly not towards Steve,_ but at a shirtless goalie over on the football field.

Steve cringed. “Fuckin' Eric…” Steve said aloud to himself, taking his eyes off the game for a split second. Just in eyesight, a sweaty Darren bounded away from his game to give his boyfriend, Eric, a running hug. Eric caught the built teen easily, giving him a kiss on the side of the mouth. Steve scoffed before getting full rushed into the ground. A chorus of jeers and swears erupted from the sidelines of the rugby and the football fields as Steve gathered his bearings. Tommy Jones trotted away looking very pleased with himself.

“The FUCK, Jones…!?” Steve shouted, up off the ground and at the offender in an instant.

“What?” Tommy shot back. “You should’ve been payin’ attention, mate! Just tryin’ to keep ya on your toes, s’all!”

“Whatever, mate.” Steve retorted, but gave Tommy a weary smirk all the same.

Tommy gave the teen a few good slaps on the back and Steve just couldn’t lay into him. Not only was Tommy a stellar athlete, but the kid had a heart of gold. When he played goalie for the football club, Jones even surpassed Darren, and that was a feat. And his talent was quite persistent in rugby as well. But Tommy was never one to boast. The kid’s too sincere and too much of an idiot to have any malice towards anyone.

Steve wanted to set up again, give Tommy a good mauling and send him home _crying._ But a would-be nice sight caught his attention. Steve saw Darren leave the football field and make a b-line straight for him. That was the nice part. The tall, reluctant shadow following his best friend soiled the sentiment. Darren was a good 10 feet ahead of said shadow, Eric, the older man clearly lagging behind with a strained smile.

“Smooth, Leopard, smooth.” Darren called, wiping sweat from his dark brow with a bundled up jersey. Though Darren may have been a little chubby back in the day, years of football turned the short teen into a stack of lean muscle. His upper body wasn’t as muscled as Steve’s, but his lean build and practice gave the brunet a great set of calves and thighs. His face also lost the baby fat, and now a rounded, well-shaven jawline and lean cheeks took its place. The one thing he couldn’t seem to shake from childhood was his ‘adorable’ button nose. “What happened to those predatory reflexes?”

“I think Jones knocked’em out of me last season.” Steve replied, raking a hand through his own sweaty hair, nicking a forming bruise. “Who the fuck let him play rugby?”

“I think _you_ invited him, genius.” Darren retorted.

“Who _the fuck_ let me do that?! Why didn’t ya stop me, Dare? The mans a fuckin’ machine!”

“Yeah!” Darren said. “An’ that’s why I didn’t say anything! You think I’d _ever_ get to play goalie with Jones around? Sorry Steve, but you’re collateral damage.”

“Oh, Darren…” Steve faked hurt, placing a hand over his shirtless heart. “You’d betray me like that? Now, I really thought we were friends, mate.”

Darren gave a soft chuckle, punching Steve in the shoulder playfully. Now, as any best friend of Steve ‘Leopard’ Leonard would know, ‘playful’ often turned ‘violent.’ A small glint sparked in the blond’s eye, matching that trademark, Leopard grin. The two broke out into a mini-wrestling match reminiscent of their childhood. Steve had Darren in a headlocked-noogie, ignoring Darren’s cries and soft slaps to his forearm. Each time the smaller teen tried getting out, Steve would swing their weight around, keeping his dark-haired friend off balance and locked in his rugby oiled muscles. This is the shit Steve missed. Fucking around with his best friend, laughing and having a go at each other. It was all perfect. Like, truly nirvana levels of perfection. But the dirt-bag shadowing Darren gave a grunt and coughed at the pair. Darren untangled himself from Steve, almost rushing to his boyfriend's side to quell the older man’s sensitivities. Steve wasn’t sure what Darren saw in Eric. The man wasn’t particularly attractive, _he was a fucking ginger for Christ’s sake,_ and he was the clingest wanker Steve ever met. Honestly, who gets bent out of shape over some rough-housing? And Eric just couldn’t hide the disdain in his gaze for Steve. The pair had made only brief eye contact, but Steve recognized hatred when he saw it. Eric’s stance was wide, and his right hand was relaxed in his pocket. As far as Steve could gather, the older man was trying to appear relaxed and calm. But with his hand sprawled over the brunet’s hip bone, rooting the teen in place beside the 23-year-old, Eric seemed nowhere near calm. Steve surveyed the hand. He held onto Darren like he was a possession; like he was a thing that Eric and only Eric could touch or find enjoyment in. He wanted to wrench the appendage from his friend and shove it up the pedo’s ass. _You’d laugh then, wouldn’t ya?_

“Babe,” Eric said. “You wanna get outta here?” He massaged Darren’s hip as he spoke, words low, tongue swiping over his lips in a shameless display of horn-doggery.

“I’ll meet up with you after catching up with Steve, alright?” Darren said, not even flinching at the pure fuck-boi waves radiating off the older man

“Ah, but you know how much I hate waiting, babe~” Now both hands gripped Darren’s hips, pulling the 17-year-old closer and closer into what would surely be an open-mouthed tongue raping.

“Oh, no, please.” Steve dead-panned. “Don’t temper the passions for my sake, boys.”

Darren playfully batted his boyfriend’s hands away at the comment. The two kissed goodbye, Darren mouthing a silent ‘sorry’ for his friend’s attitude. Eric gave an understanding nod, and mouthed back ‘You owe me’ with a wink. Steve shuddered as Eric’s hand slithered down his friend’s back to grab a handful of Shan ass before heading back to whatever cesspool he called a flat.

“And you were doing so good, Steve…” Darren drawled out, pulling his jersey back over his shoulders with a huff.

With mock incredulousness, Steve asked “Wha-What?! What I do, Dare?”

“Oh, come off it.” Darren shot back. The brunet gathered up his playgear, speed-walking off the field.

Steve quickly grabbed his own stuff, school bag and gym bag in tow, before catching up with the shorter teen. “You come off it, man. You know I don’t mean nothing nasty or homo-hating. I just think the bloke’s a fuckin’ wanker.”

Darren rolled his eyes. “You don’t even know him, and God forbid you even try or something.”

“I don’t need to get to know him, I’ve seen his kind all the bloody time.” Steve said. “It’s statutory Dare, he’s like 10 years older than you, and he’s always grabbing on you, pulling you into all his twisted, perverted shit. He’s corrupted your sweet, innocent, virgin mind.”

Darren gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. “First off,” he said, “Eric’s only 6 years older than me, not 10, you ass-”

“Six, ten, whatever, it’s _basically_ the same.”

“And _second,_ ” Darren cut back in with that trademark sass. “You basically just described yourself. Like, every girlfriend you’ve ever had’s been younger than you by _a lot,_ you fucking cradle-robber. _”_

“Like who?” Steve asked, but immediately regretted it when he saw that glint in Darren’s eyes.

“Who? _Who?_ ” Darren was laughing now, like a damn mad man. “I don’t know Steve, maybe the entire volleyball team?”

“ _Entire?_ Nah, Dare, I’m good, like _good-”_ He gave Darren a raised eyebrow, nudging him a little with his elbow, making sure he _absolutely_ got the innuendo. “But not that good.”

“Emily Watts, Sarah Neil-Porter, Sumia Patel, Julia Evergreen, Suzanna Johnson, Lydia Bell Sahri - Should I keep going?” As Darren counted off the girls, fond and not so fond memories came rushing back to the blond.

“No, I get the picture. I’m a whore.” Steve admitted. “But they all weren’t _that_ much younger than me. I mean, fuck’s sake man, Julia was like 14 when I was 16-” He took notice of the death glare Darren gave him. “Which is fucking gross, don’t get me wrong!” Steve added quickly. “But not as gross as a 23-year-old, grown ass man getting it on with a 17-year-old.”

Darren rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Age of consent is 16, therefore Eric isn’t doing anything illegal, unlike _some_ people…”

“I get it, I get it.” Steve retorted, waving off Darren’s judgment. “I’ve made some _terrible_ decisions in my life. And sometimes they weren’t really _legal-”_

Darren gave the taller man another look of pure hellfire.

“ -but that’s why I don’t need to get to know him, Darren, because I use to be that kind of guy.”

“Use to be?!” Darren sputtered, chuckles bubbling deep in his stomach as the pair walked in tandem to Steve’s house.

“Hey, hey! I’ve done a lot of growing these past few months, Dare. I’m practically a changed man.”

“Oh, no, totally, Steve.” Darren replied. “That’s why you practically lit Eric on fire with your eyes. I saw it all mate, don’t play innocent.”

“But I didn’t _actually_ light him on fire. And if you saw everything, how could you not see that fuckin’ look _he_ gave me?” Steve asked.

“He’s just protective of me, Steve.”

“So am I! I mean, what would ya do if some Uni bloke tried to date Annie?”

“Don’t even Steve, it's not even remotely the same thing.” Darren said. “Annie’s 15 and too nice for her own good. I don’t even think she’s interested in anybody. Well, other than you.”

“Don’t remind me, mate…” Steve shuddered a little at remembering how Annie’s eyes followed him whenever he was around. He used to shower at the Shan’s after practice. _Used to._ The last time Steve hopped out of the guest bathroom he swore the door was cracked just enough for a prying eye to peep through. Now he just showered at home, sweat and filth be damned. “But still Dare, you’re my best mate. I just don’t want to see you get hurt s’all.”

Darren’s face softened into a warm smile, bumping shoulders with his taller friend with just enough force and care to say _‘I know, but you don’t have to be such a prat.’_

Steve felt his stomach flip at the contact. Small, ugly thoughts reared up in his head as he looked to his best friend’s comforting face and then to their small contact.

“I know, and you’re great for that.” Darren said warmly, pulling Steve into a side hug that he was _not_ ready for.

Steve stiffened noticeably at the contact. Before Darren came out as gay they were never the touchiest of friends. The rough-housing and wrestling was all fine and good, but hugging? Steve just couldn't get over the way his stomach lurched at the thought of it all. Darren took notice and awkwardly shifted away. Steve kicked himself mentally for it, hating the tinge of pain Darren tried to conceal. The brunet clutched his bag closer to his body, the other hand snaking tight around his own waist as they walked. Steve felt overwhelming guilt for his reaction. It had been almost three months since the pair made up, but Steve still couldn’t shake his gut reactions. He wanted to pull away, to distance himself, to _run._ But he knew an apology was the right thing to do. He hurt Darren, no matter how unintentional it was, and he needed to swallow his pride and make up for it. He wanted to apologize to Darren, he really did, but the words kept jumbling up around his tongue. How the fuck can you say ‘sorry’ for literally feeling _disgusted_ by a friend? You can’t. So the pair walked in silence. And Steve hated himself for it all.

 

The walk to Steve’s home was uneventful and terribly awkward. Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he unlocked the front door because the light, airy voice of his mother broke through the deafening silence that loomed over them.

“Hi love, how was-” Mrs. Leonard’s voice cut out upon seeing Darren. She gave a noise of unadulterated delight as the pair walked through the hallway. Mrs. Leonard gave a little shuffle in her house slippers, opening up her arms and giving the boys a great, mother-bear hug. Darren hugged the smaller woman with much enthusiasm, and Steve reciprocated with a quick, one-armed squeeze.

“You’ve brought Darren!” She laughed, wrapping both arms around Darren as Steve wormed his way out by giving his mother a small pat on the shoulder. Again, Steve wasn’t a hugger. Which was fine by his mum, who latched onto Darren happily like only a Jewish mother could. Mrs. Leonard was a petite, middle-aged mother with blonde-white hair. She’d gathered quite a few silver strands over the years, and quite a few wrinkles here and there, but that didn’t stop her from strong-arming the strapping football player.

“Darren, love, you just look so thin!” she said, pulling at his built, yet still rather stringy appendages. “How can ya play when ya barely eat anythin’ dear?” She doted, offering tea and cookies and latkes and knishes as they walked to the couch.

Darren denied all the treats but chatted away with her all the same. Steve retreated to the kitchen and dropped off his bag next to Darren’s in the hallway while the two talked in the living room. Darren and Steve’s mum huddled up on the small sofa whilst flipping channels on the old CRT TV. They mindlessly chatted on about their day, Steve munching on cold, leftover latkes like an animal. Hanukkah was still three months away, but his mother recently got back into cooking, and latkes seemed to be her favorite. He would’ve joined them in the living room, his mom and Darren on the couch with himself on the floor or the like, but the awkward walk home left him craving some distance. He needed to gather himself and regrow his fucking balls. And if there’s anything he learned from his therapist, the best way to mend something is to ‘confront the situation.’ In this case, ‘confronting the situation’ meant bribing Darren. Steve finished off his latkes before opening the fridge for the peace offering: two cold root beers and a half-empty jar of pickled onions. Really, Steve wanted a cold beer right now, but his mum was doing so well. He couldn’t risk a relapse with alcohol in the house, so rootbeer was a nice, but utterly pitiful, alternative. Steve held up the snacks as he walked out of the kitchen, earning Darren’s undivided attention. Emerald green eyes locked onto the Haywards Sweet and Mild jar. The man fucking loved his pickled onions.

Mrs. Leonard took notice and gave Darren a quick pat on the shoulder as he headed up the stairs with her son. Usually, Steve would’ve just followed his friend up with little word to his mother. But his therapist, Mrs. Fairfield, was really pushing for some vital ‘regrouping’ with his mother. That meant regularly talking with her, asking her permission for things, _hugging her and shit._ Steve felt now was the time to do at least one of those things.

“Mum?” Steve asked from the first step of the stairs. “Is it alright if me and Darren chill upstairs for a bit?”

His mother turned her head from the TV looking rather surprised, but very joyed as well. “Of course, yeah, of course, love.” She said softly.

Steve nodded before giving her a small smile back.  “Alright, uh… thanks Mum.” He said.

Mrs. Leonard smiled back, but the corners of her mouth perked up in a hesitant manner. “L-love you, Stephen.” She said.

“You too.” He couldn’t really say the ‘L’ word yet, but she seemed very happy with the sentiment, smiling beautifully as she settled back into the couch. And Steve was rather alright with that.

The minute the pair reached Steve’s room, Darren flopped down on his friend’s bed. It was covered in discarded shirts and a few comic books, but Darren still curled up with the thick blankets all the same. Though Steve’s bed was literally just a mattress on the ground, Darren acted like it was the comfiest thing in the world, despite the mess. Unlike his bed, the rest of Steve’s room was pretty well maintained. His collection of vampire and folklore books were neatly alphabetized on his small bookcase, his comic book collection laid neatly on display underneath that, and his desk was immaculate in its orderliness. Darren popped a pearl onion in his mouth before scanning over the pages of an opened _Spawn_ comic.

“How can you stand that stuff?” Steve asked, reclining back in his desk chair and cracking open _Treatise on the Apparitions of Spirits and on Vampires,_ one of his most recent finds from Watkins Books in London. He sipped on the rootbeer as he thumbed through the pages.

“Remember when I went to summer camp before 8th year? My cabin mate-I think Sam, maybe?-always hid a jar of pickled onions under his bed. He’d share them with me at night, so I just grew to love’em.” Darren said, popping two in his mouth without shame. “What printing is this, by the way?”

“You’re the nerd.” Steve replied, knee deep in Camlet’s interpretation of vampirism and starved Balkans. “You tell me.”

“You’re the one reading a history book _, nerd_.” Darren jeered back, re-reading Spawn and Tremor’s matchup against Twistelli for what was surely the hundredth time. “And these comics will be invaluable, like, 10 years from now. Sell’em to the right collector and you could score $120 _per_ issue.”

“Really?!”

“Well, not _yours.”_ Darren said. “You’ve opened yours, mate, and some of these pages are bent and dog-eared. And there’s no way these are first printings.” Darren clicked his tongue, now surveying the comic page by page. “I mean, they're not as bad as Tommy’s, Good Lord, but I wouldn’t even give you $5 for this.”

“Shit, there goes my Uni fund.” Steve said, flipping to the next chapter of Camlet. “Think I'll get anything for this?” Steve held up the weathered book, but Darren didn’t even have to look up.

“Your virginity back.”

“Oi, you fuckin’ wanker, Shan!” Steve was upon the smaller teen in an instant, putting him in a headlock. Darren laughed at the assault, gripping Steve’s built forearm as he struggled with his friend. Steve shifted their weight, taking them both down onto their sides with Darren’s neck still caught between his strong arms.

“If you keep usin’ the same move-” Darren slipped out of Steve’s forearms with a slight twist, burying his face into Steve’s chest and rushing the man onto his back. “-I’ll just learn how to get out.” Darren said with smug charm.

Steve collided with his mattress, taken back by Darren’s speed. He was _actually_  pinning him down! For a split second, Steve was immensely proud. Darren and him were both decent athletes, but rugby gave Steve certain advantages; giant arms, a built chest, a ruthless need to drive people into the ground, all the traits one needs to whup ass at wrestling. So, Steve was very proud of his lean friend - until he noticed the inherent closeness of their bodies. Darren’s hands were above the both of them, locked onto Steve’s wrists to keep the larger teen down. Inevitably, this caused his friend to lean over quite close. Their faces were so close. Too close for Steve’s comfort. He noticed features and details that stirred him in ways he couldn’t quite figure. Darren’s tan, red-tinged face. A thin sheen of sweat over his forehead. His tongue darting out between pants to lap at chapped lips. Warmth crawling up his thighs. The press of Darren’s hips- _They were too close. Way too fucking close._

A sharp buzz rapted through the small bedroom. Before Steve could even register the motion, Darren was off him. The brunet flipped open his phone, a small smile lingering on his face.

“W-what is it?” Steve asked, uncertain of why it was so difficult to speak. His mouth felt dry and cottony like he just woke up from a bender.

“Eric. He’s taking me to a movie tonight, so I better get going.” Darren said.

“What? Ya just got here mate, no need to rush.” Steve said, rising from his bed. “When’s he gettin’ here? Mum’s been crazy about baking the past few months, so you could-” Steve took notice of his friend’s odd expression. He looked rather amused, if also a tad embarrassed. “What?”

“He’s already here.” Darren said, pointing his phone at Steve’s bedroom window.

Steve peered out to see a 2000 honda civic parked outside his terrace house. Eric leaned against the car, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Oh...uh…” Steve stammarted out. “Alright then.”

“Sorry, Steve.” Darren said. “See you tomorrow in history?”

“Yeah, see ya then.”

Darren gave his friend a weak smile, mouthing a quick ‘sorry’ as he passed through the bedroom door.

Steve watched his friend make his way to the stairs, leaning against the doorframe for stability. His mouth still felt dry. His head was swimming just a little, and he found that his voice still hadn’t quite returned to him.

“D-Dare…?” Steve called from his door.

Darren looked back over his shoulder, not even over the first step down yet. “Hmm?”

“I-I uh… I’m a…  really sorry about earlier today. Ya know. With Eric an’ all… ” Steve said. “I know I’m an ass, and I know I haven’t really been friendly towards’em. An’ I know that I’m… I’m uh… ” He searched for more things to say. His brain wracked over words and sentiments, but nothing really could come out. He just stood there in his doorway like a complete idiot in front of his only real friend. He felt the frustration and anger just seize him up all over again. His hand dug into the doorway, his fingers ached, his temples pulsed, everything was becoming unbearably hot-

“I get it, Steve.” Darren said softly with a faint smile over his face. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Everything seemed to melt away from the blond. He released the door frame, his blood cooled, his aches ceased. Darren always seemed to have that effect on him. When the world screamed at him, when his own brain never shut off, Darren quieted everything.

He waved Darren off on his way down the stairs, feeling strangely light and peaceful. Hearing him shout a goodbye to his mum made Steve chuckle for some reason. Darren acted more like her son than Steve did, and while at one time that would’ve boiled him over, now it seemed bemusing in the happiest of ways. Steve thought he could read the rest of Camlet in peace for the night. He settled down in his desk chair, flipping to the chapter on the possession of Mademoiselle Elizabeth de Ranfaing. This was the third time Steve found himself reading this particular chapter. He found striking similarities between Ranfaing and the notorious Loudun Possessions, most notably her connections with a soon-to-be convicted magician. He got comfortable in his desk chair, setting his foot on the desk so he could use his legs as a prop up for the book. Everything felt right again. His anger was quelled for the moment, and it was just himself, his book, and the light feeling rolling over his shoulders. But he heard a familiar and wholly unpleasant voice. He looked down from his bedroom window to see Eric wrap his paws around Darren. They kissed long and hard, Darren clinging around the older man’s neck while Eric’s hand once again slithered down the teen’s back. Steve saw those unclean, calloused fingers dig into his friend's athletic shorts, surely bruising the flesh underneath. Darren’s lips parted in a silent keen. Steve tore his eyes away from the sight. He nearly ripped the curtain off trying to conceal the scene unfolding outside. He could hear them. In his head, he heard the small chuckle in the back of Eric’s throat as he kissed Darren.

_Steve rammed his fist into Eric’s face, feeling the bones crack and give under his force._

He heard Darren’s soft moans, the ones that inevitably caused Eric to smirk with pride.

_Steve wailed into Eric’s face over and over again, marveling at the blood that stained his knuckles and drained the life from that fucker’s face._

He heard Eric’s grunts, how his thrusts shook the car, how he desecrated his best friend in that fucking car.

_He’ll murder him. Steve clutched at the lump of bone and flesh that was once Eric’s disgusting visage and watched the light leave him._

Steve Leonard was in control. The fresh hole in his wall and the broken fingers in his right hand were a testament to that restraint.


	2. Odoacer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breaking his own hand, Steve finds it difficult to be completely honest with his therapist. And once his therapist brings up Steve's interesting past with Darren, Steve wonders if he's being completely honest with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Small warning, there's some sexual content here if you squint.
> 
> I'm so sorry for the late update! I had a lot of difficulties with this chapter, particularly the length. I kept going back and forth between "Is this too long?" and "Is this too short?" I also used this chapter as a 'plant' of sorts to set up a lot of other things that'll be explored in this series. 
> 
> From now on, I'm really going to try to update once every 2 weeks to once every month depending on the chapter length. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter! Be sure to leave comments on what you liked or disliked and how I can be improving this story~!
> 
> Happy reading ;3

# Odoacer 

 

“So, how’d you get the broken hand?” Asked a young woman. The framed diploma over her leather chair read ‘April Shanahan,’ though Steve only knew her as Mrs. Fairfield. Judging by the sizable rock on her ring finger and her overall positive disposition, Steve assumed ‘Fairfield’ was her husband’s name. The diploma from King’s University rested in a dark, cherry wood frame. This not only matched the wood floor and door but complemented the rest of the office expertly. The decor was mainly large cream-white pieces, like the sofa Steve sat on currently and the armchair Mrs. Fairfield reclined in, offset by navy colored nicknacks and accents. The circle rug, throw pillows, and random inspirational quotes framed about her office were all the exact same shade of blue. This at first was very off-putting to Steve. When he was recommended to Mrs. Fairfield 7 months ago, the color-coordination pissed him off to no end. He knew color psychology. The whites and blues were supposed to inspire calmness, tranquility, trust, relaxation, blah, blah, blah… but it all felt false. So what if sitting in a blue room for an hour put his psychology in this weird state of calming bullshit? It would all dissipate the minute he left. But Mrs. Fairfield, with her unassuming features and plain kind of beauty, struck Steve. Mainly for how unremarkable she looked. Mrs. Fairfield wasn’t a gorgeous woman, but Steve found her rather attractive as far as therapists go. She was a tall woman of lean build with ashen brown hair and a heart-shaped face. Her mouth was small with full lips, and her almond eyes sat behind simple frames. In a way, her plain features expressed a greater calmness than her color-fucked psychology-trip of an office ever could. Her eyes were not prying nor did they hold an unapproachable and cutting insight. Mrs. Fairfield was a type of inviting, calm entity Steve rarely found in his life. And he quite liked her for that.

The calmness he felt, however, was disturbed by Mrs. Fairfield's hideous hands. Particularly her knobby witch-fingers. Her joints and knuckles were huge, way out of proportion with her otherwise slender frame, and marred by what Steve could only assume was _life_. The way Mrs. Fairfield folded them over her knee augmented their near grotesque appearance. Despite her unsightly hands, she always dressed sharply. But not too sharply. A gold bracelet adorned her left hand along with her wedding ring, and the right boasted a charm bracelet with about a dozen or so little trinkets. Her black skirt was clean and business-like, but nothing overtly highbrow. Her blouse was more the same but Steve could tell the faded off-yellow use to be a crisp white. Other therapists Steve saw in the past either went one of two directions: They wore fucking monkey suits and flaunted their income, or they looked homeless. But Mrs. Fairfield didn’t boast or looked like she lived in squalor. She just looked normal. And that put Steve at ease for some reason. He liked her.

“I fucked up my hand boxing. Didn’t wrap it up right, ya’know?” He liked her. But he still had to lie to her. It wasn’t anything against Mrs. Fairfield personally, shit, not even Darren knew how he really got the injury. That be a great topic of conversation:

“Hey Darren, I was spying on you last week and seeing that fuck-faced wanker feel you up made me so infuriated I've fantasized about murdering him constantly. Also, I put a hole in the wall pretending it was his ugly, ginger face. Wanna catch a movie?”

His mum didn’t either, but that took some quick thinking on his part and a well-placed sports illustrated poster. Gott bentshh Elle Macpherson and her tiny itty-bitty bikini.

Mrs. Fairfield gave Steve a knowing eye. “Really?” She asked.

Steve nodded his head in a curt fashion, reclining back in the plush sofa across from his therapist and raising his bandaged hand for good measure. The break was about a week old now, but Steve knew it wouldn’t look right after a full recovery. Upon impact, both his forefinger and middle finger jammed in a ‘boxer’s fracture.’ Fitting, right? Both fingers were broken just below the knuckle and would probably stay bent for the rest of his life.

“Hmm.” The noise of indifference skirted Steve’s ego so wrong. “I didn’t think you’d be so careless.” She said. “Be more careful next time, yeah?”

Steve knew that she knew he was lying. And this whole interaction was just a way to jab at his pride. “Yeah, yeah… I’ll be careful.” He said, rolling with it because, damn it, he did not want to talk about Eric. Not about his stupid face, not about Eric groping his best friend, not about his blood-dreams _literally murdering Eric_ . Steve was very well acquainted with a number of anger disorders, IED being the one most therapists liked to throw his way, but like Hell he’d let them prescribe him meds. Steve knew what the antidepressants and mood stabilizers did. He’d rather be a slightly (alright, maybe _extremely_ ) more aggressive human than a flat, monotone husk. Besides, he didn’t hit Eric. He never even touched the guy. Sure, he has the occasional dream/ day-rage where he murders the wanker but never has he actually hit the guy. Like Mrs. Fairfield said in one of their first sessions ‘find a healthy, safe outlet for your more aggressive emotions.’ The wall is a healthy alternative to the human face, so, from where he was sitting, his impulse control was stellar.

“So, besides the hand,” Mrs. Fairfield said as she rested back in her own chair. “How’ve you been, Stephen? Any issues or situations where you were able to exercise some of the techniques we discussed?”

“Uh...Well, I kinda hugged my mum this week. We also had dinner together, like at the table for the first time in years that wasn’t for Hanukkah. She cooked. I, uh, tried to help but I’m kinda shit in the kitchen.”

Mrs. Fairfield gave him a genuine smile as if she were truly happy with Steve’s progress. “That’s wonderful to hear!” She beamed. “What was it like? Dinner, the conversation over dinner, all that?”  

“Dinner was really good, actually. We talked about work and school, all the regular stuff. I even helped clean up afterward, so it was good.” Steve felt himself grow reminiscent over the scene. “My mum’s been crazy about baking and cooking and all that shit, so the kitchen’s always a fucking disaster.” He chuckled, his damaged hand covering his mouth as he remembered the mountain of dishes, flour caking the countertop, and his mum smelling of freshly baked jam and fried dough. “But everything she makes is fucking delicious, it’s unbelievable. She made sufganiyot-”

Mrs. Fairfield gave a perplexed look, her pen stalling over the notepad. “Are those the little donuts with strawberry jelly in them?” She asked though Steve could tell she was running a backlog of all their sessions to parse the answer.

“Yup, 5 points to the gentile.” Steve said with a smirk. Though he hadn’t considered himself a practicing Jew for 5 years, the Yiddish and crippling fear of men with shaved heads persisted. Certain words and phrases that he knew since childhood like ‘Bubbe,’‘Tante,’ ‘Ess drek und shtarbn’ (thanks Ferter Hiram for that last one) just slipped without much thought.  

“Well, I’ll take my points, and that’s all wonderful to hear, Stephen.” Mrs. Fairfield said with a small laugh before circling back to the more meaty part of their discussion. She placed her notepad on the side table next to her armchair, folding her knobby hands over her knee. They flexed in unison. Small cracks resonated through the cozy room. She was gearing up for the real questions.

Steve felt his chest clench.

“What about familial intimacy?” Mrs. Fairfield came in with the big guns blazing. “You said you and your mum embraced, right?” She asked.

Steve gave a tepid nod. If she wanted to call a side-hug an ‘embrace’ that's her prerogative.

“Well, that's amazing progress!” She said, unclasping her large fingers to fold them over her chest. “Remember when you first started seeing me? You barely even called her ‘mum,’ and now the two of you are having dinner together and doing chores together. These little moments like hugging, even if they seem inconsequential, can facilitate bigger steps towards a healthy relationship.”

Steve wanted to agree with her. It all made sense when she laid it out all nice and orderly in front of him like a game plan. Spend time with his mum, talk with his mum, have dinner and do all the regular family shit with his mum. That sounded so easy. It should’ve been easy. But in practice, Steve found the plight of ‘familial intimacy’ a grande and impossible task.

“She said she loves me.” Steve said. “Which, that by itself isn’t weird, she says it a lot now…” Steve felt his chest clench again, memories rolling over his heart and pressing the organ deeper and deeper into his ribcage. “But I never say it back to her, not really. I mean, fuck, I do love my mum, but I can’t say it.” The truth of the situation left Steve feeling vulnerable; open in a way that he rarely ever felt. He hated it.

“But, Stephen,” Mrs. Fairfield said with concern, but also a chuckle of disbelief. “You did just say you loved her.”

“Well, I’m saying it to _you_.” Steve pointed out. “But not to her, and that’s the whole problem. If I know she loves me and if I know that I love her, then what's so fuckin’ hard about saying it?”

“What matters is that you're acknowledging those emotions, Stephen. You can’t force yourself to heal, and you can’t force the speed at which you and your mum reconnect.” Mrs. Fairfield gave him that trademarked stance known as Therapeutic Sympathy ™. Her brows were slightly raised; attentive yet colored by a slight concern. Her mouth laid pursed across her face as if she were contemplating some 1,000 piece puzzle. And, of course, she leaned in closer to Steve. After many therapy sessions from multiple therapists, Steve knew the stance and its purpose well. Above all else, the stance was meant to show ‘genuine interest.’ And Mrs. Fairfield was laying the stance on hard. “The important thing is that both of you are making great progress and spending quality time together. Ever heard the phrase ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’?”

Steve gave a snort. “Cliche, much?”

“It really is,” Mrs. Fairfield agreed “but do you understand what I’m trying to say? The fact that you want to reconnect so quick is great, but forcing it will only set you both up for disaster.”

“Shit,” Steve leaned into Mrs. Fairfield’s stance and analogy. “Rome still fell, right? The empire just got so massive that it became impossible to make up for the distance in communication, culture, power… It’s a wonder it even lasted as long as it did with all the grabs for power and political warfare. I mean, I understand the analogy, really...” His speech tapered off as he pondered the true implications of Rome and his home life. Fuck, of his life _period_.

“Didn't you say history was your favorite subject?” Mrs. Fairfield said with a light chuckle, but her eyes darted over Steve’s countenance. Her face faltered and her brows knitted up upon her face as she asked: “What’s wrong, Stephen?”

“Like, it’s great that Rome stood for so long… It’s impressive, but just to keep all those territories together drained the life out of the region. I mean, fuck, Rome was in decline for maybe half of its existence as an empire? Rome maybe got, what? Fifty years of true, unequivocal prosperity? All that energy, all that time, and they still collapsed. It took just one asshole of a Germanic soldier to tear it down.” Vitality drained from Steve as he spoke. He felt his hand and chest give a pitiful ache, but the prospect of figuring out exactly _why_ seemed futile.  

“It’s interesting that you affix on the efforts and failure of the analogy, rather than the simple meaning: You can’t rush progress.” Mrs. Fairfield stated softly. “But why do you think you’re associating this concept of failure to your relationship with your mum?”

“I don’t know…” Steve always hated that question. How the fuck was he supposed to know? That’s why he’s in therapy! “Maybe I don’t believe her? Like, a part of me still doesn’t want to believe her or doesn’t want to believe that this’ll all work?”

“Some part of you believes that no matter how hard you try, no matter what you do or how you do it, it’ll just crumble in the end?” Mrs. Fairfield donned a sympathetic look, one that looked too genuine to just be apart of the stance. “Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.” Steve said as the exacerbation set in. “I never really thought she loved me when I was younger. My mum didn’t act how other mums acted, really.” That was an understatement. Since Steve was six he essentially took care of himself. His mother’s alcoholism prevented her from being anything close to a mother. There were so many days where he walked home from school because his mother didn’t show up. He’d come back to a dark house, his mother strung out on the couch and barely dressed for work. She’d wake soon after Steve arrived home usually, crawling out of the couch and fumbling for her keys. As she passed Steve on the way out to her car, she would give him a sloppy hug and a kiss to the cheek. She reeked of what Steve would recognize as gin and tonic when he grew older. She’d mumble something Steve could never parse as she limped out of the house with her car keys in hand. Sometimes she whipped together instant mac and cheese for him. But most days Steve went hungry. There were a few times young Steve managed to not burn himself on the stove and make something halfway decent, but hot pockets filled most of his dinners. So Steve, sitting alone in his room as his stomach growled and as his fingers burned from a pitiful microwave dinner, would curse his mother. Wish her dead. Pray to whatever God who could put a child through this to kill his mother in a drunk driving accident.

‘If she was gone, then Dad can just take me back...’ This was a thought that graced his young mind a lot back in those days. Steve often fantasized about something horrible happening to his mother when he was younger just so his father could save him. Whisk him away with his new, pretty wife and make everything better. But his father, in every way that mattered, was no father.

“How do you feel other mums act or are suppose to act?” Mrs. Fairfield asked.

“I mean, I don’t really know, just as a kid you can tell when somethings' fucked up, right?” Granted, it took Steve a _long_ time to realize his parent’s relationship was unhealthy, and even _longer_ to get out of the habits formed by that relationship. But somewhere deep inside Steve liked to believe that his younger self knew that his family lacked normalcy.

“Let me rephrase that: When you think of a mother, what or who do you think of?”

Steve didn’t even have to contemplate that one. “Mrs. Shan, Darren’s mum.”

“What about her specifically? Is she a stern mother, or possible more dotting? What do you think drew you to her?”

“She always liked having me around, ya know? And I loved going to Darren’s when we were younger because I got to hang out with my best friend for, like, weeks on end during the summer. And she’s a pretty great cook too. Like, as a kid, when I first started goin’ to Darren’s all the time I would just eat and eat like there was no tomorrow. I’d fight his Dad sometimes for thirds.” Steve chuckled at the memory of Dermot Shan, with a heavy heart, gracing his young self with the final porkchop at the behest of his wife.

_“Dermot!” Angela Shan chided with her Irish soprano. “Steve’s a guest and Darren’s friend, let the poor lad eat.”_

_“Alright, alright…” Dermot conceded his pork chop, and Steve wolfed it down much to the giggles and amusement of Darren and a 5-year-old Annie._

_“Wait,” Dermont paused. “Can you eat pork? I thought you were Jewish?”_

_Steve also paused but quickly resumed his dinner. He didn’t care if it wasn’t kosher, he was starving. “Can I just be Catholic while I’m here?” He asked, completely serious._

_Angela and Dermot went into a fit of laughter. Mrs. Shan had a hearty laugh that seemed to complement her husband’s affinity for knee-slapping. They seemed to go on for what felt like hours. Steve almost felt self-conscious for his remark, but the way Darren smiled at him made him feel okay like he did something good just then. After the Shans re-composed themselves, and Steve found himself half-way through his third plate, Dermot gave him another helping of mashed potatoes himself._

The memory stuck out as one of Steve’s best moments with Darren. It brought a strange comfort to the tense situation of therapy, but he had to beat back those warm feelings.

“Were the Shans aware of your mother’s addiction at the time?” Mrs. Fairfield asked.

Steve mulled over the question as he feigned thought, but he knew the Shan’s had to have known.

“I guess. Why else would they let me stick around for so long?”

“Maybe they liked having you around.”

Steve fell silent. His chest swelled with the memory again, the warmth and comfort of the meal and the Shan family filling his body like a gentle fire. As quickly as the feeling trapped his heart, Steve pushed them down once more. It felt like swallowing a large pill. His throat burned, and a pit seemed to drag down his esophagus before invading in his stomach. Steve was hallow. His chest and stomach shook with the turmoil brewing within, the happiness of the memory battling with its reality. He wouldn’t indulge himself with those kinds of thoughts. To ever think about the Shans enjoying his presence would set Steve up for failure. He was tolerated, and Steve made his peace with that a long time ago. He was the poor kid from a broken home that his best friend’s parents pitied. And the Shans were nice people. They couldn’t just send Steve back to his alcoholic mother, right? No, they couldn’t. And Steve knew if he ever thought anything different he’d just fuck himself over.

“Stephen?” Mrs. Fairfield asked. “Did I hit a sore spot?”

“N-no, no, it’s all good.” He said quickly. “ I just never thought of it that way.” Steve lied, but this one would go unnoticed.

“You’ve never thought of your best friend’s family enjoying your company? How long have they known you and your family?”

Steve shook his head at her question, but he did think about it. A lot. “Right before my dad left, Darren’s family moved from Dublin to our neighborhood. I was like 5, maybe 6? So most of my life.” Steve said.

“Wow, quite an enduring friendship then. How’s the friendship been since his coming out?”

“It was really rocky at first, totally my fault.” Steve said. He kept those memories tightly locked for the moment.

Mrs. Fairfield nodded in agreeance. “I remember when everything happened. Mainly because you missed quite a few appointments. I got rather worried, so I hope everything’s at least better?”

“We’ve been really tight the past few months since it all went down. I think last week was maybe the first real, normal week we’ve had in a while. It’s still a little weird between us, but it’s all so much better.” Steve couldn’t hide the joy in his voice, adding a small chuckle to the end of his words. He held a soft smile on his face. He thought of the lunch breaks spent reading comics, hanging in the courtyard with Tommy and Alan like old times, going through practice drills for rugby and football. Darren running across the field into the arms of-

Steve’s face fell. _That fucker tainted everything._

Mrs. Fairfield took notice of Steve’s sudden demeanor change. “Oh, that’s quite a look…”  She flexed her knuckles again. More pops and cracks filled the air. “What brought that on, Stephen?”

Steve contemplated just how much he should tell her about Eric. On the one hand, she _was_ his therapist. On the other, she was his _therapist_.

“I’ve uh…” He paused, mulling over the right words. “I’ve been having some issues with Darren’s boyfriend. Eric.” Steve couldn’t help the inevitably seething tone that accompanied the name.  

Mrs. Fairfield took immediate notice of Steve’s thinly veiled rage, readying her pen.“What kind of issues?”

“I hate him.”

“Oh.” She blinked at his candor. Her pen stalled, but she quickly took up her notes once more. “Any particular reason?”

_There are a million fucking reasons._ “He’s way too fucking old for Darren, there’s like a six-year age difference but Darren doesn’t see anything wrong or weird about it.”

“Well, many couples have decades between them. And there’s nothing illegal in a 17-year-old dating someone much older than them.”

“Sure, there’s nothing illegal, but it’s a least a little morally fucked up, right?” Steve looked at his therapist in bewilderment. Was he really the only one who saw just how _fucked up_ this whole situation was?!

“Well, you seem very upset by their age difference. What about Eric being older worries you so much?”

“I mean, it’s like when an older guy gets with a younger girl, isn’t it? They only want _one thing_ , don’t they?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.” Mrs. Fairfield said blankly. “He’s closer to your age, so you have a greater insight into that than I do. Do you feel that way around Eric, that he’s using Darren? Or are you assuming these things as, maybe, a form of projection?”

“I mean, yeah.” If there was one thing Steve felt he could really be honest with his therapist about, it was his raging sex life. Mostly because he was rather _proud_ of his prowess, but also it seemed like the one thing he was making great strides in. He didn’t sleep around much anymore, and he could see himself getting serious with someone down the line pretty soon. “When I ‘dated,’ even if you want to use that word, I always went for the younger ones cause they put out.” Upon saying that, Steve was reminded of how much of a sleazebag he could be. “But I never dated someone 6 years younger than me!” He quickly added in an attempt to save himself a little face.

“I would hope not, that would make them 11 and you a pedophile.” Mrs. Fairfield quipped back. She ignored the look of pure disgust that plagued Steve’s face as she carried on. “And I didn’t mean projection from your sex life, but rather your physical past with Darren.”

Steve felt his pace quicken. He might’ve likened himself to Eric in select situations, but never _those_ situations. “W-what do you mean by ‘physical past?’” He asked.

“Well, if I remember from our previous sessions, you use to be rather physical with Darren in both an intimate and sometimes violent way. The two of you use to hug and wrestle, even share the same bed during sleepovers in your youth, but you were also excessively violent with him at times.”

Steve’s face fell. His blood simmered on the edge of explosion. Memories loomed at the cusp of his consciousness as a boiling, rolling ire crept closer and closer to the surface. It had been a long time since Steve was ever violent with Darren. Young boys got into scraps all the time, right? And while Steve took it a bit far at times, Darren knew he never _actually_ meant to hurt him...Right? The more Steve recounted their past, and how the memories of bruised knees and scraped legs filled his head, he became less and less sure.

“Yeah,” Steve said cautiously “but why do you think I’m projecting? Darren’s my best friend, Eric’s his boyfriend, so I’m just getting a bad feeling from my best friend’s boyfriend. He’s too old for him, he’s not nearly _good enough_ for him-”

“ _Good enough_?” Mrs. Fairfield chewed on his words like they were Kobe-fucking-beef. “That’s an interesting take on the situation…”

Steve kicked himself mentally. Like all therapists, she was going to run with a tiny, insignificant nugget of information to spin into this outrageously sharp and scarily accurate knife to eviscerate his psyche. “Look.” Steve began, trying to reign in his therapist's inherent need to psychoanalyze. “Darren’s my best friend. I was a prat when we were younger, like, _a huge fuckin’prat_ , but I just don’t want to see him get hurt, that s’all.”

“I understand Stephen, I just thought it was interesting that you phrased your feelings in such a way. It almost sounds like, and don’t misunderstand me, but it almost sounds like you’re jealous of this Eric bloke.”  

Steve gave his therapist a look. While his visage could’ve been read a number of ways, the most accurate translation would’ve been: _Are you fucking serious?_

When Mrs. Fairfield maintained her composure and neutral expression, laughter erupted forth from Steve’s core. And it wasn’t just a few chuckles here and there or even the deep laughter that came from your gut, but the rib-cracking cackles you felt rumble in your _balls_.  

Steve wiped a few stray tears from his eyes and tried to gather himself a few times before falling back into a fit of sniggers at the mere thought of it. “Jealous?!” He finally said, a few final chuckles slipping out with his words. “You think I’m jealous of that ginger, fuck-faced wanker?”

“Based on your reaction, extremely.” She deadpanned. “It seems like a lot of this anger you feel for Eric is partly due to legitimate concerns, but mainly I feel that your anger is coming from a place of fear and jealousy.”

“So, not _only_ am I projecting onto Eric, but I’m also jealous _and_ afraid of him?” Steve just couldn’t, in any universe, timeline, weird-other dimensional pocket of existence, ever imagine himself being afraid of Eric. Yeah, the dude had some guns on him and worked out, but Steve could wipe the floor with him any day of the week.

“When I say ‘fear,’” Mrs. Fairfield began “I don’t mean in a physical sense, but rather an emotional sense. Eric fills a position with Darren that you can’t: Lover.”

Steve choked on his own spit at the word. The memories of Darren kissing Eric on the field twisted in his mind. Instead of Eric’s frame looming over Darren, his hands roaming over the brunet’s body, Steve pictured _himself_ filling the role for a split second. His own hands snaked down Darren’s sides before resting atop the curve of his ass. He imagined, only briefly in that split second how the supple, firm flesh would feel beneath his fingertips. How his nails would dig into the swell of Darren’s shapely ass, the light moans, and pleas for _more_ that would escape his friend’s mouth-

Steve shook his head violently, blocking out the rest of that scenario. He was a healthy 17-year-old man with an insane libido. A plump peach could get him going in the right circumstances, so small fantasies here and there weren’t too strange. But like Hell he was going to get a fuckin’ boner during a therapy session for his male best friend.

“Eric can be there in ways that you just can’t for Darren.” Mrs. Fairfield continued on. “And this is a very reasonable fear to have at your age with University coming up so fast. You might feel as if you’re losing Darren after spending so much time building and re-building your friendship after this most recent fallout. As children, it seems that you intimidated Darren into staying around. But now that you’re older and have outgrown that phase, Eric’s presence, to you, not only threatens Darren’s well-being but your friendship with him as well. In a way, this mimics the issues you’re having with your mother. You seem to be trying very hard to repair both relationships rapidly without contemplating the damage this might cause later. In an attempt to get closer to your mum and Darren, you’re actually keeping them at an arms-length.”

Steve was silent. Wasn’t it normal to want to fix things as quickly as possible? He’d acknowledged how much of an asshole to the people who cared about him most in his life, so wasn’t it natural to just want to make it all better? He never gave much thought to being jealous of Eric. Sure, Darren spent an alarming amount of time with Eric and their physical contact made him uncomfortable, but it wasn’t anything more than that.

“Stephen?” Mrs. Fairfield asked after a particularly long silence. “How do you feel after hearing that?”

Steve shrugged his shoulders. He was utterly defeated now. “I don’t know.” He said. “I never thought what I was doing was self-destructive or unhealthy, I just thought ‘Shit, I’m an asshole’ and ‘Shit, I miss Darren,’ but when you say all that? I don’t know, it makes me scared that maybe I have been pushing Darren and my mum away without even realizing it.”

“Though we’ve discussed you and your mother’s relationship at great lengths, we’ve haven’t spoken deeply about your issues with Darren. I get the overwhelming sense that you want to protect him far beyond what normal friendships call for. Why is that?”

“He’s all I have.” Steve said. “Even with my mum and me gettin’ better, Darren is still the best thing I have in my life.”

“When do you think this need to protect Darren so ferociously began?”

Steve felt his mind recede into itself. He parsed back the years of their friendship. Steve had always protected Darren. Whether it was from those sore teenagers they would beat in football, to random kids who just wanted to pick a fight, Steve would always be Darren’s first and only line of defense. But he was drawn to one cold, windy night from middle school. They weren’t supposed to be out that night. They weren’t supposed to be in that part of town. They weren’t supposed to go to that Freak Show.

“ _Cirque du Freak._ ” The phrase rolled over his tongue without so much as a breath. Memories took a vice grip upon Steve’s consciousness. The cold of that abandoned theater seeped back into his bones. Images of a tall man in red funneled back into his head. A feeling of utter terror, excitement, and hope mixed into a deadly concoction within his stomach.

 

_Steve found himself splitting his fingernails. He chewed on them in anticipation as he worked up the courage to just move. He paced back and forth behind the well lite stage, though he knew the shadows did little to cover himself._

_“He’s a freakin’ vampire, stupid!” Steve whispered to himself. He knew who this supposed Mr. Crepsley really was the moment he saw him. The orange hair, pale skin, and that distinctive scar taking up his left cheek were unmistakable. He wasn’t just some sideshow freak with an affinity for spiders. He was Vur Horston, a vampire! “He could see you a mile away in pitch blackness, the hells’ this gonna do?!” As Steve argued with himself, he tried calming down enough to actually rehearse what he was going to say to Vur Horston. After reading enough online forums, Steve knew what to expect. He’d threaten him, probably, but Steve planned for that. He’d persuade him to reconsider the harsh life of a vampire, but Steve knew the Hell of that life was Heaven compared to his own. He’d tell him how deeply he ’d miss being human, but Steve could only think of one thing that would ever make him reconsider: Darren._

_And for how much he’d miss Darren, Steve knew he couldn’t stay with his mum, stay in this town, or stay in this life another day. Darren had friends. Darren had a family. Darren had everything. What would it matter if Steve just vanished? Life would be normal here soon, and Steve would be-_

_A piercing scream cut Steve’s thoughts short. He jumped out of his skin at how shrill and blood-curdling it was, like something straight out of a horror movie. But the scream was so familiar. He heard that scream when he saw the freak show, when they watched horror movies together in secret, when the wolf-man ripped that woman’s arm clean off-_

_“Darren!?” Steve screamed into the empty theater only for deep, guttural cries to reply. Earth shattering cracks, like human bone breaking with brute force, and yowls of sheer pain distorted Steve’s mind. Every horrible, unspeakable reality came to fruition in that moment._

_Steve rushed out of the theater without any clear thought, shouting for his friend as he ran like a madman. “Darren!” He cried, slamming the exit door open as street light flooded his vision. The light burned. Frigid wind nearly took the flesh off his bones. His eyes were frantic, scanning the area for any signs of his friend, a struggle, anything. “Darren! Darren, where are you?!” Steve felt hot tears prick the corners of his eyes. His voice hurt from screaming, but he strained on, calling for his friend over and over again. Passerby’s looked at him, some even tried to help, but Steve was so far gone. Between fearing for his friend and fearing for his own life, a single thought grated his brain: “It’s my fault.” He said to himself. “This is all my fault.” His vision and mind became one track: find Darren._

_On the fifth block, just past the park, he finally saw him. Darren was lagging, his chest heaving so heavily that Steve could clearly see each breath escaping into the cold air from such a distance._

_Out of pure exhaustion, Darren collapsed onto the cobbled street._

_Steve sprinted, calling for Darren as he crumpled down to his friend’s side. He grabbed his friend's shoulder, trying to turn him over but the brunet gave a guttural shriek._

_“GET OFF ME!!!” He screamed, fighting and clawing at his assailant like his life depended on it. Darren punched and kicked madly on the ground, giving Steve a few good hits before Steve had the chance to calm him down._

_“Darren, it’s me! It’s me! It’s Steve, Dare!” Steve cried, trying to grab each punch as they came. His hands ached and burned from the sheer force of Darren’s desperation._

_Darren stilled, snapping his eyes open in pure terror._

_Steve could barely make out Darren’s pupils. He was so terrified that they constricted into near non-existence within the green of his irises._

_They stared on in shock before speaking ever so quietly: “S-steve?” Darren whispered. His face was blown raw from the cold wind, but he was sweating profusely. It’s like every nerve of his body was screaming at him to keep running. But now, in his friend’s arms, without the heat of adrenaline to keep him going, he began shaking. Pieces of dark brown hair were soaked through with perspiration and blood from the scraps that littered his right cheek and forehead. Darren’s knees and elbows were banged up too, a nasty, purplish bruise growing under the skin of his right knee. A dark spot became apparent over the front of Darren’s jeans._

_“Crap, Dare, what happened?” Steve asked._

_“I-I don’t  know!” He cried, fresh tears springing to his eyes. “I tried to follow your voice up the stairs, I didn’t know what you were doing and I was s-s-so scared for you-”_

_Steve’s heart clenched at those words._

_“-and right before I got to the balcony th-th-this-this_ **_thing_ ** _, this thing just grabbed me!” Darren said, gripping onto to Steve’s shoulders. “It-it threw me down the stairs...and then I saw its face… and… and-” He broke into sobs, burying his face into the warmth of Steve’s sweater._

_Steve felt Darren’s tears and snot soak through the collar of his shirt, but all he could do was hold him. He wanted to say something then, but he knew his words couldn’t make this living nightmare cease. Steve nuzzled his cheek into Darren’s wind-blown hair, rubbing his back and tightening his grip around his friend._

_Steve gathered up Darren from the middle of the street. He disrobed his own sweater, now stained with blood, snot, and tears, and wrapped it around Darren as they walked back to Darren’s house. At the time, Steve knew the shivering wasn’t from the cold. His friend’s convulsions were from pure fear and the crashing adrenaline rush. But Steve didn’t know what else to do. So he wrapped Darren in his own sweater and tucked him under his arm._

_Darren kept his face buried in Steve’s chest as they walked, his hands twisted up in the front of Steve’s shirt like the hand of death. Though Darren’s brain was fried, Steve was hyper-aware of their surroundings._

_As they finally rounded the corner of Darren’s street, Steve remained vigilant for shadows in the dark, a pair of eyes peering through the night, a flash of red at the corner of his vision…_

_Steve was the one to knock on the door of the Shan home. It took a good 10 minutes of knocking before Dermot Shan opened the door with a freight._

_“B-boys?!” His voice was muffled with sleep, but the anger and fear were more than apparent._

_“Darren?!” Angela Shan cried at the sight of her son. “By God, what happened?!” She pulled him away from Steve’s grasp instinctively and clutched him close to her shapely frame. Mrs. Shan hugged her son tight to her chest, Darren more than relieved to be in the arms of his loving mother once more._

_Steve heard Darren mumbling something into his mother’s chest, but she shushed away his cries and stroked his hair with delicate, albeit shaky fingers._

_As Angela and Darren embraced, Dermot called Sarah Leonard for the fourth time._

_Steve stood in front of the door, head downcasted to avoid the burning judgment of Darren’s parents. In those wee hours of the morning, Steve didn’t know whether to be thankful or embarrassed that his mother didn’t pick up._

_Upon the fifth call, and still no answer, Mr. Shan gave an exasperated sigh. He stepped over to the kitchen and grabbed his car keys off the counter with almost no sound. As he held his keys up to Steve’s line of sight, the young boy knew very well what was happening. Dermot gave his wife and son a quick, yet firm embrace as he made his way to the front door._

_Steve only made brief eye contact with Mr. Shan in that moment. As Dermont Shan held the door open for him, Steve felt the coldness of his gaze; it pierced the young boy down to his core, daring him to walk out that door and never set eyes on his house, family, or son again. The fact that Mr. Shan was even offering to take him home was a kindness Steve didn’t deserve. This situation, the cuts on Darren’s face, the tears staining his shirt, the fear engulfing his mind, all of it was Steve’s fault. He put his best friend in danger, and for what? Some stupid, idiotic vampire fantasy? The weight of his own mistakes felt crippling under the gaze of Dermot Shan, and in that moment curling up in his bed, locked away from the world, seemed like sweet relief._

_But as Dermont ushered Steve out the door, a small whimper trailed behind. Steve turned around to see Darren rip away from his mother’s grasp._

_In seconds Darren locked his arms around Steve’s neck, begging into his shirt collar words that broke whatever will Steve had left._

_“Don’t leave me…! Please, please don’t leave me, Steve.” Darren cried in a pained whisper._

_Tears spilled over at the corner of Steve’s eyes, rolling over his cheeks as he held Darren close. “M’ so sorry, Dare…” Steve whispered in his own broken voice. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” His words became strangled sobs, losing all sensable coherence in the wake of his grievances. As Steve held his friend, Angela crouched behind Darren, soothing her son with soft whispers and delicate circles massaged into his back._

_At that moment, the air shifted. Angela and Dermont Shan, mere moments ago fuming with rage and utter fear, looked on at the boys sympathetically. Steve recalled the look on Angela’s face clearly: though she still looked terrified to pieces, her eyes had softened and her mouth parted in mournful reverence. She looked to her husband with the same eyes Steve witnessed, and, as if commanded by a higher power, Dermot shut the front door behind him. He dropped his keys into his pajama pocket, before breathing a heavy sigh._

_The rest of the night was a blur, but Steve recalled the way Darren clung to his chest vividly. After changing into clean pajamas and both boys receiving goodnight hugs and kisses from Mrs. Shan, Darren insisted that Steve slept in his bed. Without hesitation or protest, Steve laid beside Darren._

_As Steve looked up at the ceiling, finally processing the events of the night,  Darren scooted closer._

_In a small, near pitiful voice, Darren asked “S-steve? Are you still awake?”_

_“Yeah. I don’t think I can sleep.” He replied._

_“Me either…” Darren said. His voice warbled like he was on the edge of tears again._

_Steve would’ve looked over, comforted his friend in some way if he knew how, but he’d witnessed Darren cry so much in the past few hours. Anymore and Steve felt that he would’ve broken down completely too._

_“Steve…?” Darren asked once more in a much smaller, hesitant tone._

_“Yeah, Dare?” Steve still didn’t look over, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Darren’s mouth part and close; gather up the words behind his tongue before dashing them away._

_“C-could you, uh…” He paused for a few seconds, just long enough for Steve to build his courage._

_He turned his head to see Darren’s face. That was a_ **_mistake_ ** _: Darren curled the thick blanket over his head, framing his tear stained cheeks and glassy eyes in dark green plaid. His mouth was partly covered with only a hint of his top lip poking out. Steve noticed how it quivered under the blanket. Though the cuts and bruises littered Darren’s face, Steve didn’t notice them. All he saw were Darren’s eyes, those insanely green, red-rimmed eyes looking up at him with the most pleading shine._

_“Could you hold me?” Darren asked finally._

_Steve said nothing. Rather, he pulled Darren close to his chest and held him tight. Darren curled into Steve readily, tucking his head under Steve’s chin and murmuring ‘Thank you’ against his friend’s sleeping shirt. As Darren’s breathing relaxed and fell into the rhythm of sleep, Steve too felt himself drift. He inhaled the scent of his friend's hair deeply before drifting away._

 

Steve found himself out of his own memories with Mrs. Fairfield's eyes positioned on the clock directly behind his head.

“Went right to the bell, didn’t we?” She said. “Next time we can unpack the ‘Cirque Incident,’ but I feel like this a good stopping place. We’ll pick this up on the-” She quickly flipped a few pages in her notebook, stopping on a center page. “- 26th of this month. That sounds good?”

Steve nodded and began raising off the sofa. His head felt muffled like someone smothered all his senses with a cloth dishrag. Not only were his memories of that night harrowing in their own right, but the implications of this session left him all the more confused about Darren. Rather than feeling accomplished, Steve felt more lost and frustrated.

“We made a lot of progress today, and I’m very pleased with how open you’re being.” Mrs. Fairfield gave Steve a genuine smile as she led him out of the office into the waiting room.

Steve reciprocated the gesture, but they both knew full well he was keeping something out of their sessions. But, despite the pang of guilt that rolled through his stomach and the utter hollowness he felt, Steve appreciated her gentle, respectful nature.

“Also, I can’t _believe_ they let you box at Left Hook without proper wraps. You need to be more careful, or else you’ll end up with hands like mine.” Mrs. Fairfield raised her hands up in front of her delicate face, flexing her scarred knuckles and crooked joints.

Steve had to double-back at his therapist from the threshold of her office. “What?!” He laughed out in pure shock. “You boxed?!”

“I _box_ , Stephen.” She corrected with an excellent jab to Steve’s right shoulder. There wasn't nearly enough force for the move to be painful, but her form was perfect. The upwards snap emulated a cracking whip, yet the motion was relaxed and practiced. She was a _pro_.

“No way! I just thought you had fucked up hands.” Steve exclaimed. Upon examining her hands closely, Steve felt stupid for _not_ knowing. Despite her tiny frame, her hands looked just like some of the trainers at Left Hook.

“Well, boxing and punching walls for a decade will ruin your hands.” Mrs. Fairfield said, glancing at Steve’s own hand.

Steve stuffed it into his jacket pocket, dull aches radiating from the bone up towards the flesh from the rough treatment.

“Honestly, Stephen,” She said. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m your therapist. My job isn’t to coax anything out of you, my job is to help you deal with the issues you feel like tackling. So, if you don’t want to tell me something or talk about a certain issue, that’s fine. But _that_ -” She pointed at his jacket pocket housing the hand in question. “-you need to tell someone about _that_. Because, trust me on this, that is going to turn into something if you don’t deal with it.”

Steve gave her an understanding nod, knowing full well she was more than right. As he walked out of the psychiatry office, his broken hand pulsed and ached. His mind did the same. And the images of Darren, his best friend in the whole world, melting under his touch left him with a feeling of utter shame as it replayed over and over again in his aching brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD, IT'S FINALLY HERE!!!!! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your love and support! I didn't think this fic would get any attention whatsoever, but the fact that I've met so many other Starren shippers because of it is amazing~! Shout out to [mynameisyarra ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisyarra/pseuds/mynameisyarra)for being a great Starren shipper and giving me soooooo many dirty ideas for future chapters ;3


	3. It's Happening Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit with Steve's father, step-mother, and half-brother leaves him on edge. An encounter with an old flame only pushes him closer to the summit. And a surprise call from Darren tosses Steve into the fucking abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I am SO sorry this chapter took so long to get out! I've just started my last semester of college and I've been preparing my portfolio for grad school, so life is pretty chaotic right now. 
> 
> Besides all my school and work stuff, this chapter just kept CHANGING. I went back and forth of the length, on the amount of detail, and all the little details that will affect the rest of the story.
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy, and reading your comments makes me soooooo happy! 
> 
> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS HETEROSEXUAL NSFW CONTENT BETWEEN TWO 17-YEAR-OLDS.

# It's Happening Again 

 

The bus to Bristol was uneventful. Steve sat in the window seat and watched the urban landscape pass him in a flurry of lights, bodies, and pubs. Time seemed to blur. The hour-long ride dwindled down to mere seconds with the pistoning wheeze of the breaks. The bus came to an abrupt stop, but Steve’s eyes still wandered on the last bar. The one thing he loved about visiting his Dad and half-brother: Close proximity to bars and pubs with lax carding policies. Really, it seemed like the motto for any merchant of ale and beer in Bristol was when in doubt, sell’em a drink.  
  
And while Steve _usually_ kept on the path of straight and narrow recently, a drink after visiting his father was often needed. He was the only passenger to get off at the intersection that didn’t beeline straight to a pub. The more he stared and longed, the harder it was to resist getting absolutely smashed after such a grueling therapy session. His broken hand throbbed. His knuckles twitched under the bandages. His tongue swiped against the back of his teeth, and he thought of Darren for only a second.

Then Steve tore his eyes away. He headed South on Collins street in torpid steps, away from the lively bars and pubs and all the wonderful, ambery drinks that would make this visit a bit more bearable.

Steve felt very out of place in his father’s neighborhood. Everything reeked of affluence. From the wide streets with landscaped edges to the enormous, expertly trimmed yards to the McMansions that boasted hefty disposable income. And there Steve was, walking those pristine streets with a faded salvage army jacket, maybe five pounds worth of change in said jacket, a busted right hand, and a gait that just screamed ‘indigent.’ And _maybe_ a few grams of low-grade weed for later…

Eventually, Steve rounded the corner of his father’s two-story cottage. The property, like many of the other homes, was encircled by a privacy hedge that kept the magnitude of the home enclosed. Even from his place on the street, his view only slightly obstructed by the hedge, Steve could see the stained glass windows on the second floor. A yellow flash darted through the house.

Steve gave a content smile as he heard the slam of a heavy door and rapid footsteps breaking into a run. Danny’s eager face greeted him as he ran past the driveway, his wavy blond hair flopping over his eyes and forehead in the wind. The tween tackled his elder brother head-on with thin arms and a toothy grin. Danny just turned 14 and he was in that awkward phrase between his chubby, adorable kid years and his scrawny, acne-ridden teen years. He’d grown about 6 inches since he was 13, which made his arms, neck, and legs gangly. And while he didn’t have full-blown pizza-face acne, Steve noticed those hated little chicken-skin bumps cresting his forehead under the bangs. Yeah, Danny certainly looked the part of the typical tween. But he still acted like a kid. Like, the weird anime-kid that sat behind you in math class who wouldn’t shut up about all the dark, edgy shit that happened in Naruto.

“Steve!” Danny shouted in pure joy. “Ready to get wrecked at Mario Kart—woah!” he stopped, still holding on tight to his big brother’s hoodie. “What happened to your hand?! That looks gnarly!” He fucking _giggled._ The kid was a little twisted too, just like his big brother.

“Not as gnarly as the fucker’s face I broke it on!” Steve exclaimed, hooking his arm around Danny’s neck and administering the obligatory big-bro noogie. “Want me to fuck up your head the same, ya little shit?” Steve laughed, rubbing his good knuckles deep into the crown of Danny’s flaxen hair.

Laughing and shrieking ensued as the pair play wrestled their way into the house, Danny’s feet dangling in the air as Steve hoisted the boy up by his armpits to get a _real_ deep noogie in.

“You’re gonna give me brain damage, stop! Stop!” Danny shrieked.

Steve kept on knuckle-fucking his head till they were both on the floor of the foyer.

“Stephen! Daniel Junior!” A shrill voice called from the front of the house.

“Oh, shit.” Said the brothers in unison.

A lean woman with dark brown hair stomped through the kitchen and living room to rain hellfire upon the boys. “What did I say about roughhousing in my home, hmm?”

“Not to…” Danny said, unlinking himself from Steve’s wrestle hold. “Sorry, mum…” It came out like a whimper, and Steve practically gagged at how fast the lad folded.

Then he noticed the pure fire radiating out of her face.

“Yeah, sorry Rebecca…” Steve apologized quickly. Maybe folding was the right idea.

Rebecca Leonard, nee Rothstein, was a stern woman of about 5’3” with straight, chocolate colored hair and eyes. Her face was set in a perpetual scowl. Her thin lips were in a permanent straight line across her cheeks, and her brows always furrowed as if something left her gravely disappointed. Though she was only 35, her demeanor created deep frown lines along her mouth and forehead, which aged her considerably. All in all, Steve found her absolutely terrifying. Annoying also but mainly terrifying.

“Go get washed up, Danny,” Rebecca said with a flick of her dishrag. “Dinner’s almost ready, so as soon as your father gets home we’ll eat.”

“But me and Steve were supposed to hang out today, mum,” Danny said. “Can’t we just eat in my room?”

“No, you know we don’t allow food in the bedrooms. Leave one crumb and the whole house’ll be infested with roaches.”

Noticing his little brother’s defeated expression, Steve gave him a ‘thump’ with his banged-up hand.

“It's alright lil’man. I can whoop your ass-” Steve felt a very sharp glare come his way. “B-butt, I can whoop your butt after dinner.” He quickly corrected himself.

“Thank you, Stephen.” It didn’t really sound like thanks coming from Rebecca, but Steve ignored it as he ushered himself and his brother into the dining room.

Unlike Steve’s flat, Rebecca and his father actually _had_ a dining room. And like the rest of the house, the dining room was grande and extremely pompous. It wasn’t some rickety table shoved into the corner of a matchbox-sized kitchen, but a large, open space with a six-seater solid oak table. The dining room also came complete with a mahogany china cabinet and a chilled fridge for wine. The room resided towards the back of the house, nestled between the kitchen and office with the foyer being its main view into the rest of the home. Steve did his best to ignore his father’s office as he and Danny passed by. He only ventured into his father’s study once. The experience was less than satisfying. Though the room was smartly furnished with a walnut roll-top desk and matching twin bookcases featuring a wide range of World War II memorabilia and infantry autobiographies, Steve found himself more interested in the things adorning the office walls. Framed memories of holidays in Moscow and Greece, Danny visiting his grandparents, Rebecca and his father smiling on their wedding day, and all other sorts of happy mementos hung on the walls. But there were no pictures of Steve. None of his birthday parties, Hanukkahs spent with Bubbe Dinah, or even a single baby picture could be found in the house. If you were a guest in Daniel Sr. and Rebecca Leonard’s home, you would’ve never known that Steve existed. Or that his mother existed, for that fact. Nothing in his father’s new, lavish home could be tied to his previous life. And as Steve passed through the glass doors sealing off the dining room from the rest of the home, he was once again reminded of his place. His place outside of this family, this neighborhood, and this world that his father constructed in Bristol.

The table was already set for the most part with three plates and all the fixings already out. Whether Rebecca forgot to set a plate out for him or she simply refused to, Steve would never _truly_ know. Before Steve even had time to contemplate his stepmother’s stance on his existence, Danny already brought him a set.

“Mum’s kinda forgetful lately, sorry.” Danny chirped. He smiled at his elder brother as he sat down, two Dr. Peppers in hand.

Steve took the soda with a smile. He twisted open the cap with his good fingers while the other hand kept it steady against his chest. He had no idea where Rebecca found kosher Dr. Pepper—they weren’t sold at One Stop—but he wasn’t complaining.

However, as Danny sat down, Steve noticed a small, flash of purple slinking around his younger brother’s wrist.

Steve felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Shit, did _I_ do that?” Steve asked, his finger pointed squarely at Danny’s left hand.

Danny didn’t even look down at his wrist. He pulled his jacket sleeve over the flesh and shrugged it off.

“Nah, you didn’t do anything,” Danny said. “I got hurt in gym class, but it’s nothing serious.”

 _Well, now that smells like bullshit._ “And does ‘gym class’ steal your lunch money too and make bad holocaust jokes?”

Danny fumbled with his soda bottle.

“Is it that fucking 9th-year kid?” asked Steve. “The fuck was his name? Jeremy Donahue? That fucking fat-ass, pizza-faced prat with the beady little eyes? Is he fuckin’ with you again?” Steve got out of his chair and bent down to get on Danny’s eye-level. He seized up his face, neck, collarbone, every inch of flesh visible on his little brother for evidence of that fucking wanker.

“It’s not a big deal, Steve…” Danny said. He pulled away from his brother’s prying gaze and tucked his wrist back into his jacket sleeve. “Mum talked with the school, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Steve wasn’t convinced with that answer. “You know what I did to kids who told on me?”

Danny shook his head.

“I fucked them up _outside_ of school.”

“But-”

“No, listen to me,” said Steve. “If he fucks with you again tell _me._ Not dad, not Rebecca, _me._ Got it?”

Danny looked uncertain but gave a hesitant nod.

Steve gave his brother a few hearty slaps to the shoulder, muttering “Good lad, good lad” just as his parole officer did on their meetups.

“What will you do…?” Danny asked.

“Beat him up bloody, that's what.” And with that Steve sat back in his chair, Dr. Pepper in hand like a bottle of Smithwicks. “ _Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam borei p’ri hagafen._ ” Steve blessed their drinks with the traditional Hebrew. You’d never guess he hadn’t been to temple in four years if you just ignored his garbage pronunciation.

“Wouldn’t it be ‘ _barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam shehakol niyah bidvaro’_ since it’s technically candy?” Danny said with a hint of hesitation. Unlike Steve, Danny _always_ went to temple.

“Shit, I don’t know. Just drink it and revoke my jew card.”

Danny laughed so hard he sprayed Dr. Pepper all over Rebecca’s Russian-lace tablecloth. Steve knew he shouldn’t have, but he felt _very_ accomplished.

 

… … …

 

Daniel Leonard Senior returned home around 6:00 pm about 30 minutes after Steve arrived. If Steve ever wanted to know what he’d look like in thirty years all he had to do was give his dad a good once over. He and his father stood at about the same height, about 6 feet give or take a few centimeters, and their physiques were comparable as well: Broad shoulders and a wide chest accompanied by rather long legs. And while Steve was much more muscular than his father, he could see that he was once an athletic man. But the years of inactivity and the leisure of family life did him in. Daniel Leonard had grown paunchy of sorts, sporting an ample beer belly in the quintessential ‘dad bod.’ His once blond hair was now completely grey, save for the stark white patches ghosting around his temples. He had deep frown lines as well, but they seemed to accentuate a relaxed demeanor to his visage rather than a sternness. And, probably the aspect of aging Steve _dreaded_ the most, Mr. Leonard was _hairy._ Like Chewbacca-fucked-a-Tibetan-Mastiff-hairy.

Steve recalled a very distant memory: he was maybe four years old, swimming in the creek behind Bubbe Dinah’s vacation cottage on a sweltering July evening. His mother watched him play in the clear waters as she sipped on a cold beer. His father joined the waters shortly after undressing to his boxers much to the humor of his then-wife and the horror of young Steve. At that moment, Daniel Leonard looked less like his father and more like an escaped bigfoot. Thick, dark-brown curls carpeted his father’s body. As he entered the water, the curls transformed into inky-black tendrils reminiscent of a black otter’s shiny coat. Steve remembered bolting out of the water to hide behind his mum. He also remembered throwing quite the fit when she settled him across her hip saddle-side to brave the creek with the river beast. Despite the literal decade time difference, Steve’s fear of the hairs poking through his father’s neckline persisted. Steve already noticed the change on himself at the young of 17. His treasure trail had not only thickened and darkened over the past year but now connected to his ample chest hair in some hideous imitation of a shag carpet. He contemplated shaving the ordeal occupying his flesh but a healthy fear of manscaping and agitating the hairy mass prevented him. _Damn these persistent Hebrew genes._

Daniel gave his wife a kiss as he entered the dining room, taking the brisket dish from her lithe hands and setting it on the center of the table. He gave Danny a quick ruffle to his wavy locks and Steve’s shoulder a playful jab before settling down in his own seat.

Rebecca set the table not long after with bread, carrot tzimmes, and potato salad. She poured two glasses of merlot for herself and Daniel.

Steve noticed a new tablecloth and Rebecca’s pointed stare. He snickered a bit under his breath. _Hope it stains, bitch._

“Thanks, Becca,” Daniel said as he sipped from the glass. “Dinner looks amazing, by the way.” He punctuated the sentence by bestowing a heaping of brisket to his plate.

The rest of the family followed suit, but Steve did not share his brother’s or father’s enthusiasm for the meal. Maybe his overall opinion of Rebecca prevented him from appreciating her culinary talents, but his mum could bake and cook this bitch under the table. And his mum would never reheat store-bought bread and serve it as her own. _She_ had fucking standards, damn it.

Steve said his blessings along with the rest of the family before digging into a horrendously dry brisket. _How the fuck do you dry out meat that’s literally stewed in wine for 5 hours?!_ Dinner was quick with small chit-chat here and there about everyone’s day, what Danny was studying in school, what his dad was teaching the kids over at Bristol University, what ballets Rebecca wanted to watch, etc.

But then the conversation went in the inevitable direction.

“How’d you get that nasty break, son?” Daniel asked over his second helping of brisket.

Rebecca gave Steve an unsavory glance, eyeing his hand suspiciously at the mention of the injury.

“He broke it against some bloke’s face!” Danny chortled through a mouthful of food.

Rebecca shot her husband the _look,_ and Danny was soon chastised for his ‘inappropriate comment.’

“I mean, yeah,” Steve half-lied “ But it was practice _._ Didn’t wrap it up properly and broke some knuckles, s’all.”

Danny pouted at the answer, and Rebecca took another sip of her wine with a not-so-subtle eye-roll.

“Be more careful next time, safety first an’all that, right?” said his father, to which Steve gave a nod and went back to shoveling dry meat and soggy bread into his mouth.

“But, the other guy’s face was completely thrashed, right?”

“Daniel Junior!” Rebecca reprimanded in a hushed tone across the table. “This is not polite dinner conversation, and I will not have it at my table.”

“Oh, relax a little Becca. The boy’s just curious, nothing to fret over.” Daniel tried to temper his wife’s ire, but she seethed at the table’s head.

“Please, for your poor mum’s sake,” Rebecca said, “just talk about something else, bubbala.”

Ah, and there it was. The dreaded _bubbala._ Danny, ever the mama’s boy and softie, folded at his mother’s request.

Steve scoffed at the whole exchange. His brother was too _good_ for his _own_ good.

“Does Darren still breed spiders?” Danny asked in a smaller voice, a forkful of food ready to cover up the words in case it awoke more anger in his mother.

“It’s not _really_ breeding,” Steve quickly added when his father and Rebecca choked on their wine. “He just finds those little house spiders and has them go on ‘dates.’” Steve politely omitted the fact that Darren kept a detailed journal of these ‘dates’ and the offspring conceived therein. He had thumbed through the journal a few times, faking interest (poorly) each time Darren raved over a new brood. Steve shuddered internally at the heavily detailed, heavily graphic pictures his best friend would draw of these… encounters.

“He’s still our best forward, scored four goals the other day, two free-kicks and two lobs,” Steve added, mainly to spark his father’s interest.

“Impressive, impressive,” said Daniel Sr. “Still ‘Hotshot Shan,’ I see?” He laughed at the old nickname with another sip of his wine. “He’s applying to Bristol, right? We’d love him on the team.”

Rebecca held the stem of her glass with a calculated stillness. She took the last of her glass in a delicate shotgun, and as she poured herself another one slipped this quip across the table: “I didn’t know they let _those types_ play contact sports.”

A gluging of wine was the only audible sound.

But, if you listened exceptionally close, one could hear the blood vessels in Steve’s skull implode.

Danny, who stopped mid-bite at the palpable tension, turned to his elder brother with a confused look. “ _Those types?”_ he mouthed across the table.

Steve considered, only briefly, chucking the fork in his good hand clear through Rebecca’s eye socket. “What do you mean… ” Steve began in forced calmness. “ _Those types?”_

“Fairies,” Rebecca deadpanned. “Is it really safe for him to be playing with healthy young men? I mean, nothing against your little friend, but I wouldn’t want my little man to get any diseases. All the running and shoving, and not to mention the _showers,_ it just doesn't seem safe, does it?”

Danny gave his mother an uncertain look. “What’s not safe about it?” he asked.

Steve’s nails carved deep, crescent cuts into his palms. He felt the screams bubble up in his throat. Before he could let loose the burning words, Rebecca quipped up again.

“Well, it be like letting a slag into the boys dressing room, don’t you think Daniel?” Rebecca said to her husband, who downed the rest of his wine. “I mean, he’d only be a distraction to the other boys, and should anything _happen,_ you know boys being boys and all, half the team would catch AIDs or something.”

Steve should’ve bitten his tongue —should’ve bitten it clean off in his own mouth—but no amount of therapy and self-inflicted dismemberment could hold him back.

“That talk from experience, Becca?” Steve said casually.

Daniel Sr. choked on his wine.

Danny’s mouth hung agape.

Rebecca nearly broke the very wine glass in her hand.

“Not personal experience, of course, don’t want to _insinuate_ anything,” added Steve. “But, I mean, callin’ my friend a _slag?_ Oy vey, you must know’em very well then. What’s that saying again? Takes one to know on—”

With a loud screech, Rebecca pushed her chair away from the dining table and grabbed everyone’s empty plates and discarded silverware. She gave her husband a tight-lipped frown before glaring at Steve with what can only be described as pure contempt. Rebecca stomped into the kitchen without a single word.

 

There was a tense moment of silence in the dining room. The clanging of dishes and running water drowned out what Steve could hear to be faint curses from within the kitchen.

Danny’s mouth was still hanging wide open.

Steve’s father gave a heavy sigh as he took off his thick-rimmed glasses. He gave the bridge of his nose a two-finger massage before raising from his seat. “Daniel Junior, get upstairs to your room.”

“B-but Dad—” Danny began but clammed up at the sight of his father’s tight scowl.

“Room. Now.”

Danny was up the stairs without another word.

“Stephen,” said his father with a defeated voice. “Was that really appropriate? For God sake son she’s your step-mum.”

“Oi, the fuck you want me to do, huh?!” Steve retorted. “She called Darren a diseased slag, and I didn’t see _you_ doing anything.”

Daniel Sr. gave another huff,  fingers taunt against his scalp. “It’s getting pretty late, huh Steve? I bet your mum’s expecting you back anytime now, yeah?”

 _Yeah, just roll back and send me out. Fuckin’ coward._ Steve rose from his chair without a word. He made quick, long strides to the door. He took a single step out before his father came up behind him.

“Maybe we should put next week’s dinner on hold, yeah?” He said. “Just till all this passes over.”

Steve did not say the myriad of curses flying through his head. Instead, he gave his father a curt nod before walking down the driveway.

“Get home safe, son. An’tell your mum ‘hi’ for me an’ that I sent the check in the mail.” Daniel called out from the doorway of his home.

Steve kept walking.

 

… … …

 

Steve never thought he’d be so thankful for an hour-long bus ride. He always took the bus from Bristol to Gloucester Station because it stopped a few blocks away from his flat. Usually, he hated the ride for all its stops and lengthy bouts in traffic, but sitting down and drowning out the downright vile thoughts in his head with _Godsmack_ and _Cannibal Corpse_ is exactly what he needed. Before the _Awake_ album played for the second time, Steve’s stop came up.

Summer was pretty much dead in London. September rolled through with the brisk wind and a shit ton of rain. Small, pinprick like drops pelted his head not even three steps off the bus. With his jacket pulled tight over his shoulders, the hood matting down his spiky hair as he tried protecting himself from the soon-to-be-downpour, Steve speed walked through the rain. By the time he turned the corner on to his street, the 17-year-old was completely soaked. His backpack and gym bag weighed heavy on his shoulders. They grew heavier with each passing second as the rain seeped through the cheap material. Steve’s gym bag didn’t hold anything of much importance, just sweaty underwear, and his gloves. But his backpack- _completely different story._ Nestled in that secret pocket he carved out Year 9 was an eighth of White Widow, and like hell he’d let $60 worth of weed go to waste thanks to the fuckin’ rain and a cheap bag.

Steve booked it home. He ran another two blocks before coming up the front step of his terrace. He fumbled with the keys, the metal slick in his hands from the rain. With a click he was in, and he quickly took to disrobing his soaked jacket and sweater, leaving an equally soaked tank tap clinging to his broad chest and shoulders. Steve deposited the gym bag on the floor right underneath the coat rack where his wet clothes were tossed unceremoniously. When his clothes immediately fell to the ground, Steve paused. The Leonard household, despite the outward appearance and the tenants there within, was maintained in a very _particular_ fashion. Every day at precisely 5:15 p.m. Sarah Leonard would return home and place her purse and jacket on the hook furthest from the door. Her high heels would sit underneath her coat awaiting for work the following morning. The keys to her Civic would be placed on the antique half table, gifted by Auntie Margot in 1987, along with half a thermos of now cold tea. Steve, who would return home anytime after 7:00 p.m., always tossed his gym bag underneath the coat hanger, his wallet on the half table, his beat-up Adidas sneakers on the runner, and his jacket on the hook next to his mother’s. This was the natural order of things.

However, something alien and utterly inconvenient had usurped the system. Instead of his soaked jacket resting beside his mother’s purple winter coat, a black windbreaker with blue lettering took his place. It read ‘police’ across the left breast pocket.

“What the fuck?” Steve asked himself. He became very aware of the _illegal_ substances in his bag, and ever so cautiously hooked it over his shoulder. _Always keep your drugs close by, kids._ Steve peered out the door window.

A police cruiser, which he swore wasn’t there a minute ago, sat on the street. It glared through the rain, taunting him.

“How the fuck did I miss that?!” He yelled in a hushed tone. “Did they come to give me a fuckin’ piss cup?! That’s not part of my parole…”

Soft laughter and chatting could be heard in the back of the house. Steve immediately recognized his mother’s high pitched laugh, but the deeper timbar underneath her’s was less familiar. Their voices bounced through the kitchen and living room, growing louder as Steve passed through the entrance hall. He peered past the counter separating the kitchen and living room to see a truly _frightening_ sight.

Officer Crowley and his mother were sitting at the dining table. Drinking coffee. Having freshly baked babka. _Laughing up a fucking storm._ They sat across from one another, but they seemed to do everything in their power to close the gap. Leaning over the wooden table, wrinkling the tablecloth in the process, Officer Crowley’s chubby face was a mere foot away from Steve’s mother. She too leaned in with great interest, resting on her elbows in an attempt to crane her face closer to Crowley’s. His mother held a small cup of coffee in her right hand while the other held her face as she practically _died_ of laughter. Small droplets of coffee sloshed over the side, but she took little notice. Officer Crowley gesticulated wildly as he recounted a story of chasing down some hoodlum. Sarah Leonard ate up every last word like it was the half-eaten babka on the good china. _Fuck, she broke out the fancy cutlery?!_

“O-oh! Hi Stephen, welcome home!” Mrs. Leonard said with a sputter and no breath. “How was your session, and h-how was your father? And Danny, how’s school been for him? Adjusting well, hmm?” She scrambled to set her coffee on the table and nearly knocked over her cup as she rushed to her son’s side. While Steve felt it was partially to envelop him in a warm hug, he knew the distance was a weak attempt to cover up all the lovey-dovey vibes percolating through the air. The flush consuming her entire visage and how her fingers fidgeted with a stray lock of hair was evidence enough.

He gave the pair a confused shakedown with his eyes. He settled on his mother. “They’re good,” Steve said with as even of a tone as he could muster “therapy was good, Dad’s good, Danny’s good. Everything’s good…” All lies, but like he’d tell his mum about any of the shit that went down today, not with all this _new shit_ unfolding in their own kitchen.

Mrs. Leonard nodded as he spoke, “Good, good to hear.”

Steve turned his probing stare to Officer Crowley, who avoided all eye-contact as he sipped from his cup. “How you doin’ Officer Crowley? Good coffee?” The edge to his voice was unintentional, but very much deserved.

“Excellent coffee.” He mumbled with a curt nod. He stood rigid in his spot next to the chair, holding the tiny cup in one hand and the other on his utility belt. “Just stopped by to check on ya, make sure you weren’t gettin’ into any trouble.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve walked over to the table, taking a slice of babka without breaking his stare on Officer Crowley. If he wasn’t in such a bewildered state of disgust he’d compliment his mother’s baking. But more pressing matters took up his attention. Like _why the fuck is his fuckin’ parole officer coming on to his fuckin’ mum?!?!_

“I guess mum kept you company while you waited, huh?” Steve took a bite as he waited for the rebuttal.

“He popped in right as I finished the babka,” his mother cut in, trying to diffuse the very obvious tension in the room. “We talked about how well you were doing over some coffee, and then the rain started and I offered him to stay till it passed over- Oh, Stephen, I’m sorry dear!” She interrupted herself, stepping over to the kitchen drawers and fidgeting through their contents. “You’re drenched, Stephen. Here,” She shut the drawer when it became apparent no towels would magically produce from its depths, scurrying into the hallway linen closet. “I’ll get you something to dry off with, alright dear?” She called.

“Alright, mum.” Steve said, not looking in the direction of her voice but straight through Officer Crawley. They stood in silence for what felt like ages, Steve never breaking eye contact from his parole officer.

The middle-aged policemen did everything in his power to avoid the inevitable. He shifted from foot to foot, looked about the tiny kitchen, checked his watch and cell phone, fucking whistled a shanty. But for a brief moment, the officer’s eyes shifted and crossed Steve’s. The air left the room. A deep wave of rage rolled over Steve. He felt it bubble up through his stomach, accelerate his pulse, and fade his vision. His nails of his good hand dug deep into the flesh of his palm, blood and rainwater mixing.

Mrs. Leonard returned with the towel, nearly getting caught in the mental crossfire as she sidestepped past her glowering son and the embarrassed officer.  “Sorry about that dear, you must be freezing.” She dabbed at his wet hair with the towel.

Steve batted away her hands. “I got it, I got it. You don’t need to dry me. M’not a kid, mum.” He said curtly.

She retracted her hands, balling them atop one another against her breast.

He regretted his words immediately.

She looked hurt like Steve just told her bugger off. In all fairness, that _did_ use to be a large part of his interactions with his mother, but he was trying very hard to _not_ give off that feeling of arseholery.

Steve took a breath, relaxing his grip on the fabric in his hands. “Thanks for the towel, mum.” His voice was much softer this time, metered by deliberate care and calmness. He gave a small smile and she seemed touched by the sentiment.

Officer Crowley placed the coffee cup down on the table, shuffling out of dining room without spiking the awkward tension in the room. “I should be heading out now, I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome a bit.” He said with a rough chuckle.

“Oh no, George.” Mrs. Leonard was already shoveling a hefty piece of babka into some tupperware for the officer. “Come around whenever, we love having you over.” Once again, the red tint covered his mother’s face and Steve felt his insides give an organ-altering twist.

Officer Crowley took the baked sweet bread with a grand smile. “Thank you, Sarah, your baking makes it hard to stay in shape.” He gave his rotund stomach a good pat for added measure.

Sarah gave a hearty laugh, following the officer to the front door where he slipped his jacket back on and wrangled his keys from the breast pocket. He opened the front door and bid a last goodbye to Mrs. Leonard with a rather friendly hug. _Too fuckin’ friendly._

Officer Crowley took notice of Steve’s gaze. He straightened up in a futile attempt to retain a shred of authority in the situation. “Glad to see yer doin’ well, boy. Keep up the good work. Stay outta trouble, keep with it n’school, be nice to yer mum.”

Steve gave a curt nod and a monotoned “Yes sir.”

“An’ pick up after yourself,” Officer Crowley gestured to the soaked jacket laying on the floor beneath the coat rack. “Ya won’t always have your lovely mum here to do it for ya.” And after making his mother blush like a damn school girl for the umpteenth time in the past hour, Officer Crowley finally left.

Steve hung his jacket on the hook, _where it belonged,_ and hooked his gym bag over his shoulder and his backpack over the other. Steve could rest a little easier knowing both his weed and mother were safe for the night from sad, lonely police officers.

“I’m heading up.” Steve said as he passed by his mother. “Had dinner at Dad’s, so I’m just going to study before heading to bed.” He very much did not want to speak about what just transpired in the kitchen and, hopefully, if he ignored these new developments he could sleep without nightmares.

“O-oh, alright.” his mother said. “Do you and your lil’ friend want any snacks while you study? Maybe some tea or babka?” she called, leaving Steve rather transfixed halfway up the stairs.

“What friend?” he asked, looking from his shut bedroom door back down to her. Steve didn’t have _friends._ He had Darren, who was like a brother to him, Danny, his actual brother, and on occasion Tommy Jones and Alan Morris, who were tolerated at best.

“The young lady you're helping with math. Julia? I think she said her name was Julia…” Ms. Leonard said the name to herself a few times, but Steve knew _exactly_ who was in his room. _On his bed._

“Julia Evergreen.” he said with a sweet tone of remembrance, one he hoped his mother didn’t pick up on. “Yeah, yeah. I told her I’d help her with some stuff on the review for a test we have in like a week.” Steve called down to his mom as he trotted up the stairs. A noticeable pep accompanied his steps. “And don’t worry about snacks or anything, I’ll just explain some things to her then see her out.” He didn’t even wait to hear his mother’s response before rushing through his bedroom door and locking it behind him. No need to bother his mum with looking after them when they had so much to get done. After all, he had some rather _hard_ concepts to help sweet Julia with.

 

… … …

 

Julia Evergreen, newly 16, laid herself out on Steve’s pitiful mattress. Her lips, plush and pillowy, quirked in amusement as she flipped through his copy of Camlet. She was a walking wet dream. A full mouth that rested in a pout, soft cheeks edged out by a dusting of freckles, a head of loose curls, thick thighs crunched by an _insanely_ tight pair of shorts, and _huge tits_. Her feet rested on the wall, her hands preoccupied with the pages.

“So,” Steve drawled out low in his throat “you break into my house by lying to my sweet mum,” he slinked onto the bed as he spoke, tossing his bags to the side, “then you have the nerve to go snooping through my shit,” he bared his frame over her body, extending his arm over her ample chest as he caged her between his pelvis and thick arm, “and, to top it all off,” he plucked the book straight from her hands “you lost my page.”

“Rude.” Julia stated, rolling out of Steve’s grasp with a flip of her brunette locks. “And it’s not my fault your mum’s so trusting, and you leave your weird vampy crap layin’ round.”

Steve rolled his eyes at her ignorance, quickly finding his page once more before dog-earring and placing it back on his desk. Turning his attention back to the lithe girl, he saw a jumper slip over her pale, freckled shoulders. Her fingers made quick work of her bra soon after.

“The fuck happened to your hand?” asked Julia “Wank off too hard?”

Steve ignored her questions and her voice in general, but let his eyes wander the smooth expanse of her tits.“What’re you doin’ there, Jules?” Steve grinned.

“What’s it look like, _Leopard?”_ She said. With a flick of the wrist, her bra was tossed across the room.

Steve was not a weak man. But Julia had _great fucking tits._ She looked amazing in anything with them pushed up, bouncing, and on full display. But topless—Julia neared porn-star levels of tit-perfection. They were heavy, pillowy, _huge,_ and waiting for him. What does any healthy teenager do in this situation?

Dive right in, that’s fucking what. In an instant, Steve pressed her lithe body into the mattress with his own weight. He wrapped his arms around her hips, burying his fingers deep into her thighs and ass. The pair rolled on the bed. Steve landed on his back beneath Julia, her soft, ample tits resting heavy on his pecs. He wasn’t complaining.

Her fingers worked at the hem of his shirt and yanked the fabric over his head. “Oh!” Julia giggled, her hand caressing the strained tent in Steve’s jeans.“Someone’s a little pent up~”

Steve began shucking off his pants in a flurry with his one good hand.

Julia did the same with her skinny jeans. Her mouth worked up the length of Steve’s neck with sloppy, desperate kisses as her hand stroked up his still-clothed cock.

Steve took a handful of her left tit, loving the soft yet firm flesh spilling out between his fingers. His thumb rolled her nipple in delicious circles.

Julia mewled into his chest, her chestnut hair rubbing against his chin as she worked her hand over his dick.

Steve doesn’t know how it happened, but it did. Even with his hand massaging her ample, porn-worthy tits and her breathy moans flooding his ears, Steve saw a flash.

_Dark brown hair clouded his vision, only for piercing  green eyes to pin him down to the bed. A hearty, Irish-tenor filled his head with filthy pants and groans. Rough hands worked his cock with fine expertise and care, sending his hair on edge and a name nearly spilling over his lips._

“Da-damn…” Steve stuttered, catching himself as the very _female_ body working him into a heady pleasure brought him back. “Think we could speed this up, Jules?”

Julia raised her head from his chest and mouthed a single word: ‘Greedy.’ Her hand dove into Steve’s boxers. Warm, delicate fingers pumped his shaft.

The skin on skin contact was exactly what he needed to dash the unwelcome thoughts. Everything melted away from Steve at that moment. All the blood rushed from his head straight to his cock, and he didn't have the fucking mental capacity to waste on Rebecca, his dad, his therapist, _fucking_ Eric, or -

“Darren,” Julia breathed out into Steve’s ear “almost ruined this for us, you know?”

Steve’s hands froze on Julia’s tits, along with his breath.

“Good thing I told him to give us some privacy, huh?” Julia giggled. She crawled down his body and pulled his cock free from his boxers. With her hair grasped in a single fist and Steve’s dick in the other, Julia was ready to swallow him down her willing throat.

Steve pulled himself up from her grasp, leaving Julia confused and her mouth cockless. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Steve asked. “Did Darren come by?”

“Well, yeah,” Julia said “when is he _not_ by?” Julia punctuated her intent with a quirked brow. “I saw him on the way here and we just chatted for a little bit. Apparently, he and his new beau got into it. Boyfriends—relationships, really—so much trouble, yeah?

Steve’s erection died in Julia’s hand.

She pumped him slowly, trying to get back up to half mass. “Oh, Steve, we don’t have to worry about that, let's just get back to it, okay?”

“No,” Steve grimaced “I gotta talk to him about this.” He rolled off the bed as fast as he could and started shimming his pants back on.

“What?! Are you seriously leaving right now?”

“Eric’s a fuckin’ asshole, and Darren’s fuckin’ head over heels for him, so if he’s upset enough to want to talk to me in person then it’s _fucking bad, Jules.”_

“Jesus, calm down,” Julia said. “You’re upset over nothing! Darren’s a big girl, he doesn’t need you running to save him all the time.”

“Don’t fucking say shit like that,” Steve warned. He was already fully dressed and ready to stomp Eric’s head in. He gripped his cell-phone like a pistol.

“What?! Oh my God, are you really getting onto me for turning Darren away so we could fuck?”

“What if something went down between him an’ Eric, huh? I need to be there for him for that type of shit.” Thoughts of all the horrible things Eric could’ve possibly done ran through his head like a freight train. He couldn’t stop it. No matter how much he tried, therapy techniques and all, Steve couldn't stop his hand from clenching around his Nokia as if it were Eric’s bloody neck. And Julia’s commentary was not helping.

“Darren’s fine! They’ll have a fag-shag and make up, it’s-”

“I’m serious, Jules. Cut that shit out.”

“Oh save it, Leonard.” She seethed out his last name. She got off the bed and pulled her jeans over her thighs. Julia began searching for her bra and shirt as she tossed Steve a dirty glare. “Everyone fuckin’ knows about it, and it's not a big fuckin’ deal if Darren Shan’s a faggot getting fucked up the ass—”

A shotgun of sound rang through the house.

In an instant Julia ducked to the ground, her shirt and bra clutched close to her chest.

Steve’s phone laid embedded in the wall. Flecks of paint and drywall peppered Julia’s hair, the dent right where her head would’ve been.

“Get the fuck out.”

 

… … …  

 

Ms. Leonard, no doubt flying up the stairs to check on the commotion, was nearly thrown over the railing as Julia sobbed her way down. With her t-shirt still in hand and her bra barely hooked on, Julia rocketed out the front door.

From the outside, Steve heard her shrill voice scream a million obscenities. But the one that cut deepest was her shrill, scared voice crying the word _monster_ over and over again.

Steve steadied his mother on the landing but spared no time to explain.

His mother was bewildered. She followed him all the way down to the front door, out into the front yard, and even to the street. “Steve!” She cried into the night air. “Stephen! Talk to me! Please, just talk to me!” Her voice sounded hoarse, and Steve knew the tears already ripped through her lungs.

“I gotta check on Darren, mum!” He called back, not even looking behind him. “I gotta make sure he’s okay…” His words hung in the air. And even as his mother called after him, Steve only heard the expanse of night stretch over him.

 

… … …

 

With his indestructible Nokia in hand (along with a considerable amount of drywall) Steve called Darren only a street away from the Shan residence.

Darren picked up on the first ring.

“Steve?” Darren’s voice was _wrecked._ He’d been sobbing, not crying, but _sobbing,_ and Steve almost couldn’t take it.

Steve felt his heart clench in his chest, like his ribs would cave in and kill him right then and there. “Hey, I’m sorry about Julia,” Steve said. “I didn’t know she’d be there today, and I’m heading over to your place right now.”

Darren gave a lengthy sigh over the phone.

Steve hoped it was one of relief. “What happened with Eric? Do I need to slash his tires or somthin’?” Steve said it as a joke, but was quite serious.

Darren gave a small chuckle to his words, that wonderful, light laugh that rang through Steve’s body like the Golden Bells. Steve could feel the little head shake of disapproval from Darren’s end of the line, knowing full well that Darren didn’t understand how serious he truly was.

“No, no Steve,” Darren said, laughing. But his voice still carried a sad weight and a defeated tone. “But getting sloshed sounds great right now.”

“Oi, I’m your guy,” Steve said. “But what happened, Dare? What’d that fucker do?”

A moment of silence lapsed over the line.

Then, in a small, broken voice, Darren spoke.

“He got us tickets to _that_ circus.”

The sidewalk swallowed Steve whole.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!  
> Remember to leave some kudos, comments, and maybe visit my Ko-fi page ;3

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, this was so much fun to write!  
> I remember scouring Fanfiction.net, Deviantart, LiveJournal, and a bunch of other sites just to read fanfics about Cirque du Freak. It feels great to finally add my own work to an amazing, though small, fandom and give love to my favorite Rare Pair! 
> 
> If you like what I do, or if you want to suggest fanfic ideas for me, go [Support Me on Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/A468LPG) ;3


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